The man head-butted him. Twice. Right where he’d been hurt in the car accident, but Wake held on.
The gun went off, nearly deafening Wake, and the man broke free. He scrambled away and ran limping into the underbrush. “You got two days, Wake!” he called over his shoulder.
Wake got up slowly, his ears still ringing. He looked himself over, couldn’t find any bullet wounds, but there was a raw spot along one side of his chin. He bent down, picked the 9mm off the ground, checked to see that there were still bullets in the magazine.
He dabbed at his forehead, saw blood on his fingertips. When this nightmare was over, Wake was going to start wearing a football helmet, make it part of his wardrobe.
Wake put fresh batteries in the flashlight, kept the two remaining flares in his other hand. Beside the trail a display had been set up, a slice of an ancient tree at least ten feet in diameter, its growth rings marked by important historical and local events. Pilgrims land at Plymouth Rock was near the middle of the slice. Declaration of Independence signed was further out. He traced them with a forefinger. Lincoln assassinated. World War II ends. Wake stared at the entry toward the edge of the slice. Estimated 7.1 magnitude earthquake sinks island in Cauldron Lake.
Wake shivered.
No… he wasn’t shivering, the ground was shaking again, the wind roaring through the trees. Wake’s head throbbed, a real skull cracker, the pain burning through his thoughts, leaving nothing behind except darkness. He felt himself falling.
Wake broke the black calm surface of Cauldron Lake, shattering the dead surface, the icy water humming as he fell deeper and deeper. Bird Leg Cabin was down there, and that’s where Wake belonged. He sat in the study now, hunched over the typewriter, tapping away, the sound of the keys like thunder as he typed faster and faster. Two days, two days, two days…
Wake opened his eyes. Nothing but stars above and the sound of wind in the trees. He scrambled to his feet, looked around, half expected to see fresh swarms of Taken emerging from the darkness. He was alone.
Wake ran down the trail, kept running until the pain in his side became unbearable. He slowed, but kept moving as the forest rippled and flowed around him. Every time he was sure he was lost, he came upon a sign that pointed the way back to the Visitor Center.
He was near exhaustion when he heard voices. He approached carefully, rounded a bend, and walked into a camp site. Three tents were pitched beside the trail, equipment laid out around a picnic table. A portable radio on the table was tuned into the local talk show.
“Hello?” called Wake. No response. “Hello!”
The tents were empty. Looking around, Wake understood why. A shotgun leaned against a footstool, its walnut stock etched with a hunting scene. The camping gear was nearly new, high-quality sleeping bags, fancy cook stoves, freeze-dried lobster bisque and sirloin tips, a bottle of sixteen-year-old scotch. The hunting party was made up of gentleman tourists out for a leisurely long weekend, uninterested in really hunting, the gear just an excuse to get away from their wives. Three of the Taken had fit that description. At least once upon a time. They had been no less ferocious than the grimy Taken in work boots and denim jackets. No less dead now either. He looked over at the radio.
“Welcome back to the show, folks, this is your host, Pat Maine, but you already know that. As promised, our very own Dr. Nelson has just parked his rear end in the studio. Doc, what’s your Deerfest plan like?”
“My plan? You make it sound a lot more organized than I ever seem to manage!”
“Ha ha ha!”
“Yeah, exactly, Pat. But I’m going to check out the parade, of course, and I’ll be one of the pie contest judges.”
Wake switched off the radio. He rummaged through the tent, found shotgun shells, and stuck them in his jacket. He slung the shotgun over one shoulder and headed for the cabin. An hour later, Wake’s cell phone rang. He answered it, still walking.
“Al? Finally.”
“Barry?”
“I’m flipping out here, Al,” whispered Barry. “The front porch is all covered with birds. Real pissed-off birds. It’s like I’m Tippi Hedren in a Hitchcock movie.”
Wake remembered the ravens that had attacked him in the cable car, almost killing him. He was on the edge of the forest now, the trail forking. To the right was the Visitor Center. He took the left trail that led to the cabin. “Stay inside, I’m almost there.”
“Al,” said Barry, still whispering, “first you with your disappearing zombies, now me with the birds from Hell. I’m starting to wonder, if craziness is catching, like the flu or mumps or—”
“Why are you whispering?”
“The birds… I don’t want them to hear me.”
“I’ll be there soon. Just make sure you keep the lights on!” Wake broke the connection.
Wake reached the top of the path. From this vantage point he could see the cabin, still shrouded in darkness, but the horizon was aglow, edged with dawn. Ravens clustered in the trees around the cabin, hundreds of them, weighing down the branches. They swooped off the trees and into the air as Wake approached, their wings darker than the night.
Wake covered his face, trying to protect his eyes as the birds attacked, the flock so thick that he couldn’t see the cabin. He swung the flashlight, the beam dissolving some of the ravens, but there were too many of them.
“Al! Al, this way!”
Wake stumbled, fell to one knee. A dozen ravens shrieked around him, clawing at his face, deafening him with the sound of their beating wings.
“Al!”
Wake snapped one of the flares, and the birds around him blazed in the flash of light. He staggered toward the porch as another wave of ravens launched themselves at him from the trees, wheeling upward and then abruptly down for maximum effect. Wake twisted the other flare as they dive-bombed, waved it overhead, and swept them into nonexistence. He stood there blinking, half-blinded from the glare.
Wake felt a hand on him, dragging him up onto the porch and into the cabin. The door slammed behind him.
“Jeez, big guy, you had me worried out there,” puffed Barry, his face scratched and swollen. “Thought those birds were going to make a scarecrow out of you.”
“Scarecrows… scarecrows are supposed to scare birds away,” said Wake, so tired he could hardly stand. “Those birds looked scared to you?”
“What, you think this is the time to correct my metaphors?” said Barry. “Hey?” He looked concerned. “What’s with the shotgun?”
“It’s been a long night,” said Wake.
“Tell me about it,” said Barry. “I thought the pigeons back home were like flying rats, but these birds, they’re worse. It’s like they… they want to hurt us. That’s nuts, isn’t it, Al? I mean, that doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Wake didn’t answer. He slipped the shotgun into the closet, put the boxes of shells on the shelf. He kept the revolver and extra ammo in his jacket.
Barry sat down on the couch. Reached for the beer bottle that rested on the coffee table, almost knocked it over. “I—I don’t like it here, Al.”
Wake sat heavily beside him. He took the beer from Barry’s hand.
“Sure, go ahead,” said Barry, watching as Wake finished the rest of it, drained the bottle, and tossed it aside. “I was thinking of cutting back, anyway.”
Wake belched and closed his eyes.
Stucky spat on the garage floor and tried to shake the cobwebs from his head. Ever since the couple from New York City never showed to pick up the keys, things had been fuzzy. Something—a feeling—caught his attention. Stucky looked up and stared, unable to turn away as his brain tried in vain to process the horror before him. He stumbled back, knocking over a can of oil; a black pool spread across the floor. He struggled for a brief moment, then let go as the unrelenting darkness engulfed him.
CHAPTER 12
WAKE STARED AT his yellow legal pad. Four hours ago he had written the words DEPARTURE, by Alan Wake at the top of the page
, underlining it three times. The rest of the page was still blank. His fingers were cramped from gripping the ballpoint pen, his head throbbed, but he hadn’t written a word. Not one word. Alice had brought him to Bright Falls hoping to jump-start his writing, but he still was locked in, even now when writing was the only way to free her.
The clock was ticking, Alice’s very survival at stake, and he stayed poised over the table, waiting in vain for some inspiration, some thought… anything that might save her. He glanced over at the crumpled and flattened manuscript pages on the desk, the pages found in the woods, at the logging camp… at Stucky’s gas station. Had he really started the book, started it during the missing week after Alice was kidnapped, a week he had no memory of?
He rubbed the bump on his head, wincing at the memory of the impact that caused it. Why was finishing the book so important to the kidnapper, so important that it was the only ransom he demanded? The man didn’t seem like much of a reader. There was someone else behind him, pulling the strings.
Two years of writer’s block were nothing compared to this. He couldn’t scrawl a single word, not even to save Alice. Now he had two days to complete the manuscript and deliver it to him at the Bright Falls coal mine. Two days.
At least Barry wasn’t here to distract him with offers of aspirin, canned chicken soup, coffee, whatever you need, Al, just say the word. A few hours earlier, Wake had finally convinced Barry to drive into town and ask around, see if anyone recognized the kidnapper from Wake’s description. It was a long shot, but Bright Falls was a small town. Maybe everyone really did know everyone. Wake had watched through the window as Barry drove off, relieved at being left alone to work, but also oddly uneasy. Barry was the only one he trusted, his only connection here with life outside of Bright Falls.
Wake yawned. It was unfair of him to push Barry out the door and Wake knew it. It hadn’t been easy for Barry, particularly when they went by the lodge this morning and saw the mess from last night. The mess, an oddly sanitary term for the blood splashed across one corner of the main room where Rusty had been hacked to pieces by one of the Taken. No body, of course; Rusty himself had become a Taken, and Wake had killed him. Nothing to show for it other than a huge hole in the wall of the lodge.
The sheriff had stared at the hole, hands on her hips, stared at the dried blood too, then started cataloging the crime scene, directing her deputies. That much blood it had to be a crime scene.
The workers at the lodge had stood around gawking, coming up with various scenarios. That the earthquake that everyone in the area had felt had collapsed the wall, crushing Rusty. That a bear had come in to drag away the body. Others offered up the possibility that a drunk logger had driven a loader into the wall, accidentally killing Rusty, and then got rid of the body, hoping to hide the crime. Or an angry spirit had done it, that’s what one of the old-timers said, a grandpa in a red wool cap with a mouthful of chaw. An angry spirit, he repeated; his mama had told him stories when he was a kid, stories about things from the woods that snatched the unwary, snatched disobedient children too. The crowd laughed at the old-timer and Deputy Mulligan joked back that it was probably Buck-Toothed Charlie come to life. But Wake didn’t laugh. He knew better.
The sheriff had asked Wake if he had heard anything last night, seen anything, and he lied to her, said no, he’d been exhausted and turned in early. He wasn’t sure she believed him.
Without even noticing it was happening, Wake’s chin drifted lower as he struggled to stay awake…
Wake beat on the typewriter and the typewriter beat on him, click-clacking away in Bird Leg Cabin, bent over the desk in the upstairs study, typing as fast as he could. His fingers ached from pounding on the keys of the manual typewriter, his manual typewriter, the one Alice had brought with them, the sound of it as familiar as his own breathing. He tore at the keys in a frenzy, desperate for completion, sensing someone behind him, looking over his shoulder, but Wake couldn’t turn to see who it was, wouldn’t turn if he could. All that mattered was that he keep writing. His fingers flew.
Wake jerked as a horn beeped, someone really leaning on it. He rubbed his eyes, looking around in disbelief. He was back in the living room of the Elderwood park cabin, his neck stiff, his shoulders sore, but here, not in Bird Leg Cabin. He saw Barry pull up outside, waving from the front seat of the car. Wake looked down, saw the legal pad in front of him still blank. The pencil he had been holding lay snapped in half on the table. Wake wanted to cry. Wanted to scream in anger and frustration.
A wasted afternoon and he had no time to waste, not if he wanted to get Alice back. He kicked the desk in frustration, cracking the bottom drawer. He leaned down and opened it, the handle falling off. But that wasn’t all. Stacked neatly in the rear of the drawer were three new manuscript pages. Hands trembling, Wake picked up one.
Barry got back to his feet inside the Bright Falls General Store and dusted himself off. Right next to the cans of baked beans was a locked case filled with flare guns. And yet, here was a conveniently placed barrel of crowbars! Barry’s smile widened as he realized that this was the classic movie scene where the hero had to gear up and arm himself to the teeth. Barry threw himself into the role.
Barry burst through the door of the cabin, still wearing the red parka in spite of the heat of the day.
“Hey! Good news! I got a call on my way back from town. That waitress, Rose, says she’s found a bunch of your manuscript pages. She wants us to come by and pick them up.”
“How did she get them?”
“How do I know?” said Barry. “She works at that diner, talks to everybody. Besides, she’s your biggest fan, just ask her.”
Wake quickly gathered up the pages on the table. He started to tuck them away in a drawer, then thought better of it, folded them lengthwise and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “You got an address for her?”
“Oh yeah,” said Barry, following Wake out the door. “She lives in the trailer park. Big surprise, huh?”
“Don’t be a jerk,” said Wake.
“You’re right,” admitted Barry as they got into his car. “It’s easy to look down on people when you don’t need them. Rose, she’s alright.” He glanced over at Wake as they drove toward the main road. “I found a lot of information in the local newspaper’s archives. There’s been all kinds of weird stuff happening in Bright Falls for over a hundred years. Very weird stuff.”
Wake checked his watch. It would be dark in a few hours. He didn’t used to dread the night, but he did now.
“This place is a regular Night Springs episode,” said Barry, accelerating. “Mysterious deaths, Bigfoot sightings—”
“Any kidnappings?”
“No, not that I heard of,” said Barry, “but there’s plenty of disappearances, locals who walk away from their cabin and never come back, tourists that pass through town and never get to the campground, and get this, Al, most of this stuff takes place around Cauldron Lake.”
Wake stared straight ahead, watching the trees whip past. It felt like he had been punched in the stomach.
“The Indian tribes considered Cauldron Lake to be the gateway to Hell,” said Barry, excited. “You got to write about this stuff…” He caught himself. “As soon, you know, as soon as we get Alice back.”
“Just drive, Barry. I want to get those manuscript pages.”
“I was trying to help, that’s all. Little conversation. Pass the time.”
“You are helping,” said Wake, shaking his head. “I’m the one with the problem. I feel like I’m in a nightmare and I can’t wake up.”
A half hour later they pulled into the parking lot of Sparkling River Estates. Twenty or so small trailers were scattered across the gravel, most of them with satellite dishes on their roofs, barbeque grills beside their front doors. A flagpole stood out front, the American flag hanging limply in the stillness. Surrounding the park was a white picket fence that needed painting. Wooden pallets, old tires, and fifty-gallon oil drums littered t
he site.
Barry nodded at the rusting Chevy up on blocks, its hook raised. “This looks like where NASCAR nation goes to die.”
“Barry… this is going to sound a little crazy—”
“I’m shocked.” Barry held up a hand. “Sorry. What do you want to say?”
“If at some point you find yourself in the general store in town, you should know that there’s a case of flare guns—”
“Flare guns?” said Barry, genuinely confused. “Like when you’re lost in the woods? Like the Bat signal?”
“Yeah, like that. The flare guns, they’re stored next to the baked beans. The flare guns are locked up, but there’s crowbars nearby, so you can open up the case.”
“Okay, Al.” Barry patted his arm. “I’ll put that information away for safekeeping.”
Wake’s phone rang. “Hello.”
“Mr. Wake? It’s Sheriff Breaker. Sorry to bother you, but we have an FBI agent here, an Agent Nightingale. He’s… anxious to see you. Can you come by the station?”
“FBI?” Wake was even more concerned now. The kidnapper had made it very clear that bringing in the law would get Alice killed. “I thought you were going to wait until your men had searched—”
“I didn’t call in Agent Nightingale,” the sheriff said tightly. “He showed up unasked and unannounced.”
“I’ll be over as soon as I can,” said Wake, breaking the connection.
“Maybe it’s a good thing the FBI is getting involved,” said Barry.
“No, it’s not,” said Wake.
“You want me to make some calls, Al?” said Barry. “I got an attorney that springs Mafia dons. He can be on a plane—”
“I don’t need an attorney.”
“That’s what they all say,” said Barry. “Right before the prison door slams.”
Wake got out of the car and walked over to where a middle-aged man was raking leaves out of a wilting flower bed. The man wore camouflage pants and a bright-yellow vest over a short-sleeve shirt.
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