Alan Wake

by Rick Burroughs

  Wake saw shadows flickering on the walls, a deeper darkness that the moonlight couldn’t reach. He rushed upstairs to the bedroom. She wasn’t there. He walked slowly to the study, his footsteps heavy. If she wasn’t here… if she wasn’t here, then where was she? “Alice?”

  Jagger followed him.

  Wake looked around the study.

  “She’s not here.” Jagger glared at him from the shadows. “Did you really think there was going to be a happy ending?” Her laugh was like the sound of a rusted bedspring. “Your lovely Alice is dead. She drowned because you walked out on her. She’s lying there in the filth at the bottom of the lake, making friends with the bloodworms and crabs, and it’s your fault. You’re responsible for her dull eyes and cold blue lips. All she wanted was to help you write, but you wouldn’t let her. You might as well have killed her yourself. It would have been kinder to the poor dear.”

  Wake’s past self leaned against the desk, sobbing.

  “Hush, now.” Jagger stroked his hair, and her touch was like seaweed. “There’s still hope. Cauldron Lake is a very special place. Here, you have the power to change things. Alice wanted you to write. That’s the only way you can bring her back.” Shadows were piling up in the room, slowly blocking out the moonlight. “I can give Alice back to you, just the way you remember her. Better, even. I’ll help you. I’ll tell you what to do. You can write her back. A creative fellow like you can do anything here. You’re so lucky to be here. The story you write will come true, and all will be well again. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Wake felt the darkness gathering around his past self, and it took all his strength to remind himself that it was a dream, a memory that he was recovering in bits and pieces. The Dark Presence had brought him back to this place to torture him, but the darkness had miscalculated. Wake felt the pain and the overwhelming loss of that first night, just as the Dark Presence wanted, but he was able to stand back from himself again and finally understand what had really happened that night. This was how it had happened. This was how he had written the manuscript. Jagger had Alice, and the manuscript was the ransom for her.

  Wake saw his past self nod at Jagger. “Yes… yes, I’ll write what you want. I’ll fix it. I’ll do anything you ask, as long as you bring her back.” Wake saw himself sit down at the typewriter and start writing, fingers pounding the keys, the sound like thunder in the study. Wake remembered that sound, he had been hearing it for days now, the sound so constant that after a while he almost forgot it was there. Wake stared at himself banging away at the typewriter while Jagger hovered over him and he remembered…

  In the dark, Wake had written for days—a week—written almost a complete manuscript of a novel entitled Departure. Touched by the Dark Presence, trapped in a nightmare, he’d thought he was saving Alice, convinced it was the only way to bring her back. Jagger had stoked his fear, whispering to him as he worked, making sure that the unfolding story would make the Dark Presence more and more powerful.

  Wake watched as his past self worked in the darkness, barely sleeping, manuscript pages piling up on the desk. His past self slumped over the typewriter and Jagger prodded him with her bony fingers, urging him to write faster.

  Jagger cocked her head.

  Wake stopped breathing as Jagger scanned the room, as though she was aware that someone was watching. The lake rumbled, the darkness stirring, stretching, and then Jagger was gone, attending to other business. Wake’s past self kept typing, oblivious.

  Through the window, Wake saw a light bloom in the night. He watched it slowly enter the cabin through the balcony. Yes, he remembered the light too. The Diver, Thomas Zane, who had saved him after Wake hit the hitchhiker. He was aware now of the light moving upstairs toward the study, sensed it beside him now.

  “I brought the light to set you free,” said the Diver from inside the light. “That’s what you wanted.”

  “That’s what I wrote,” said Wake, putting more pieces of the puzzle together. Wake’s past self had been compliant and desperate, but in spite of the cobwebs Jagger had put into his head, Wake had sensed the Dark Presence’s plan. Even under Jagger’s watchful eye, Wake had managed to write an escape hatch into the story, a light that had entered the cabin before he finished, a light that had freed him. Zane was weak and far away. But the light had interrupted the horror story, the terrible ending where darkness consumed everything and everyone.

  “You have to go, Alan,” said Zane. “It will know that I’m here.”

  The Dark Presence roared outside, beating against the windows.

  Wake awoke from behind the typewriter, and it wasn’t his former self, the dreamer. Wake was there now, still groggy, still weak, but he knew.

  Zane reached out from the light and lifted the manuscript from the desk. “It stole the skin of my Barbara a long time ago,” he said. “I knew it wasn’t her, but I wanted so much to believe…”

  The windows of the study went dark, turned to dust that floated onto the floor. Barbara Jagger stood there.

  “You!” Jagger shrieked at him She strode toward Wake in a billow of black, wagging a finger in his face. “Aren’t you a clever boy.”

  Her eyes were empty, bare sockets of bone, and Wake had to force himself not to look into them or he would fall forever into the darkness, fall so far that no light could ever reach him.

  “Such a strong mind,” clucked Jagger, rubbing her hands together, “so creative. I knew it the first time I sensed your presence. Oh, we’re going to have such fun together, you and I.”

  “Get away from him,” said Zane.

  Jagger glanced at Zane. “You’re dead, Thomas. Did you forget?”

  The light flickered, held steady. “You’re not Barbara,” said Zane. “You never were.”

  Jagger’s black dress flapped around her as though she were in a storm.

  “Get out of here, Alan,” said Zane, trembling in the light.

  “Stay!” ordered Jagger. “You have work to do!”

  Wake stumbled down the stairs and out the door of the cabin. He looked back over his shoulder at the light in the study, saw the light in the study flare, then start to die. The lake was rising, breaking over the planks of the bridge to the mainland as he splashed across. Out of breath, he jumped into the rental car, started it up, his hands shaking.

  The week in the cabin had taken its toll on Wake. Barely able to keep his eyes open, he floored the accelerator, gravel flying as he peeled off down the narrow road. He was driving too fast, outrunning his headlights, but he was afraid to slow down, afraid of what might be pursuing him.

  He dozed off for an instant, the car swerving onto the shoulder. He steered back onto the road. There was something else he needed to remember, something just beyond reach, something that was about to happen…

  His eyes were so heavy, too heavy to hold up. He thought of Thomas Zane. It must have cost him terribly to help Wake, must have thrown him even deeper into whatever nightmare he now haunted, but he had managed to weaken the Dark Presence and allowed Wake to escape that night. He jerked as the car veered off the road, crashing through a guardrail. He held on tight as the car bounced down the embankment, and, too late, Wake realized what he had been trying to remember.

  It was the accident, this accident where everything had begun. In a few minutes, he’d come to in the wrecked car and have no idea of how—

  Wake’s head banged against the steering wheel as the car slammed into a tree.

  Wake opened his eyes a crack. He wasn’t in the car, steam billowing from the radiator, his forehead bleeding. No night. No woods. No Stucky. The car crash had been days ago.

  He was in the Anderson brothers’ living room, squinting in the soft morning light. Barry lay snoring on the floor, curled up on the carpet, the empty jar of moonshine beside him. Wake closed his eyes again, feeling sick as he remembered Bird Leg Cabin, Barbara Jagger, and Thomas Zane.

  It was no moonshine-fueled dream. He wished it were. “I wrote it,” he mumbled.
“It… it’s my fault.”

  “You got that right, Wake.”

  Wake looked up, saw a man with a gun standing over him.

  “It’s all your fault,” said Agent Nightingale, “and you’re going to pay for it.”

  When he stopped the car at the Anderson farm, Walter felt relieved; oblivion was close at hand. The brothers wouldn’t miss a jar of moonshine, or two, in the booby hatch. But then he saw the man on the porch, and he knew who it was. Driving for his life and knowing it was useless, he didn’t realize he was crying until he couldn’t see the road for the tears.

  CHAPTER 22

  WAKE GRIPPED THE bars of the Bright Falls jail and dreaded the coming of the night. It was dusk and he could hear the bustle on Main Street, car horns beeping happily, kids squealing, all the eager voices excited about Deerfest. They had no idea what was coming.

  Wake’s knuckles whitened on the bars as he remembered Barbara Jagger’s words last night, the cruel laugh as she sneered, Did you really think there was going to be a happy ending? The fact was that he had thought so. Wake was used to being in control, being in charge… being a winner. Of course he was going to defeat the darkness and get Alice back. He was going to make it up to her, renounce his past failings and start over. He was the writer. Of course they were going to live happily ever after. Isn’t that the way the story went? Now… Wake beat his fists against the bars. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Barry stirred on the right-hand bunk of the cell, rolled over. His snoring echoed off the concrete floor and painted gray brick walls. He had awakened briefly when Agent Nightingale arrested them in the Anderson brothers’ living room, bleary-eyed and brutally hungover. Barry had begged for a drink, and then curled up in the back of Nightingale’s car in his red parka like a gigantic tomato. He had awakened again when Nightingale dragged them into the station, but while Wake demanded to see an attorney, Barry had stumbled to the bunk and fallen asleep. Wake never got an attorney. Never got to see Sheriff Breaker either, who was out investigating the numerous disappearances in the last twenty-four hours. She should have asked Wake.

  Nightingale had confiscated the manuscript pages, had rifled in Wake’s jacket and found them before Wake woke up. In spite of the agent’s gun, Wake had fought him for the pages, but he was still drunk on moonshine and Nightingale had tripped him, cuffed him almost before he hit the carpet. The humiliation burned, but the loss of the pages was worse. He had only read bits and pieces of the manuscript, bits of pieces of what he had gathered over the last few days. He had no idea what the final work would look like, and what effect it might have on Bright Falls.

  Wake sat on one of the bunks. He could see the night gathering through the high barred windows of the cell. He could hear a car race down Main Street, desperate to get somewhere fast.

  A radio crackled over the intercom, Pat Maine giving his regular update on the upcoming festivities. The man never slept. Wake didn’t blame him.

  “Well, we’re expecting a record crowd from the neighboring counties!” chirped Maine. “Naturally, we hope to break the record set by last year’s Moosefest in our neighboring town of Watery. Ladies and gentlemen, some people have asked me what’s the big deal about Deerfest, and I think that this sums it up: it’s about friendship and community. We’ve got a great party coming up, but let’s try to hold it in until tomorrow and get through the night in one piece, huh?”

  Wake gasped as a sharp pain lanced through his head. He cradled his head in his hands, rocking back and forth. Worst hangover ever. He looked up as Cynthia Weaver appeared in the cell.

  Weaver seemed unaware of him, unaware of where she was. She stood slightly hunched over, a lit storm lantern in her hand.

  Wake blinked, unable to focus on her. “Miss… Miss Weaver?”

  Weaver didn’t respond, just kept glancing around furtively, her face in the light from the lantern. “I have it,” she said, mumbling to herself. “Someone will come for it when the time is right, oh yes, they will. Thomas said so. He wrote it.” She lifted the lamp higher. “The key is insurance. It’s my job to keep it safe, safe in the light. Always in the light.”

  “Miss…” Wake looked around the cell, but Weaver was gone. He rubbed his temples, trying to relieve the pain.

  Barry stirred, slowly sat up in his bunk. “My mouth… my mouth tastes like a coal mine. Or a coal miner’s boot.” He looked at Wake. “Al, I need… need extra-strength aspirin and an IV drip. Stat.” He looked around. “We’re in jail?”

  “Yeah, the Four Seasons was all booked up,” said Wake.

  Barry groaned. “What… what did we do? Is it because we killed all those Taken? We did do that, right? That was… that was no—” He clutched at his stomach, staggered off the bunk, and loudly vomited into the toilet.

  Wake looked away.

  Barry fell to his knees and held on to the white porcelain with both hands. He vomited some more, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He flushed the toilet, wincing at the sound as he stood up, unsteady. “I’m never… never drinking again.”

  “Last night you wanted to market the Andersons’ special-formula moonshine,” said Wake. “You talked about buying an ad at the Superbowl.”

  “I did?” Barry ran a hand through his scraggly hair, nodded. “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “I need to talk to Weaver,” said Wake. “She’s the one in the song, the lady of the light.”

  “I remember her,” said Barry, plucking at his lower lip. “She walks around in daylight carrying a lantern. I thought she was crazy.”

  “She’s probably the least crazy person in the whole town,” said Wake. “Shhh!” He put up a hand. He could hear Nightingale and Breaker approaching in the hallway. They were arguing.

  “What kind of a game are you playing, Nightingale?” said Breaker. “You can’t arrest people without cause. You haven’t even interviewed Wake.”

  “I had some reading to do first, Sheriff,” said Nightingale, talking too loudly, “and let me tell you, it was interesting stuff.”

  Wake walked to the door of the cell, craned his neck. He could see them nearby, Nightingale waving the manuscript pages at the sheriff.

  “When the reports came over the wire last week, I knew… I knew,” said Nightingale. “Flew out here the same day. Never thought I’d get a second chance…” He sensed Wake watching him, stalked over to the cell. He was wearing the same rumpled black suit, and his tie was undone and spotted with coffee stains, his eyes puffy and bloodshot.

  Wake could smell the booze on his breath, as Nightingale peered at him.

  “There’s the one responsible for all the problems,” he said, jabbing a finger at Wake. He shook the manuscript pages. “It’s all here, all the evidence, including conspiracy to murder a federal agent. There’s no way you’re walking out of here. You hear me?”

  “Agent Nightingale, I intend to talk to your superior,” said Breaker.

  Nightingale spun around to face Breaker. “Sure, why believe me? I didn’t believe my partner either. Finn saved my life, saved it a couple times, but when he started spouting all this mumbo jumbo about dark rooms and dark shadows, I told him he needed a vacation—”

  “I’ve already put in a formal request to the Bureau,” said Breaker. “Your behavior is totally unprofessional—”

  “That’s funny, lady.” Nightingale snickered. “I… I said the exact same thing to Finn. Unprofessional. You’re an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I told him. You need…”

  Breaker put a hand on Nightingale’s shoulder. “You’re drunk, Agent Nightingale.”

  Nightingale shrugged her hand away. “I never… never drank before Finn disappeared. Never.” He dragged the back of his hand across his nose. “Neither did Finn. Never took a drop until he started talking crazy. Other agents used to call us the Righteous Brothers because we always ordered club soda after work. Then Finn started going on about the darkness, and I…”

  A deep rumbling shook
the night, and the lights in the cellblock flickered.

  Wake staggered against the bars, grabbing his head and moaning.

  “Al?” called Barry.

  Wake closed his eyes. He could see it clearly now, Cauldron Lake, dead calm and black. The water hummed. He looked into the lake, saw the diver, Thomas Zane, falling into the depths. Zane had something in his hand… a light switch. The Clicker. Wake’s childhood shield from his own fear of the dark. What was Zane doing with it? In the dimness, Wake saw Bird Leg Cabin, roots hanging from its bottom like the legs of a monster bird. Through the window of the cabin, Wake could see Alice and Barbara Jagger. Alice was struggling to break free, but Jagger’s long nails dug into Alice’s wrist. Alice became aware of Wake, screamed out his name, but all that emerged were black bubbles rising slowly toward the surface of the lake.

  “Al, you’re scaring me, buddy,” said Barry.

  “Mr. Wake! What’s wrong?” said Breaker, shaking him.

  Wake looked up at her, still dazed. He had fallen to his knees and Breaker was by his side. She looked concerned. He didn’t blame her. The cell door was open. Nightingale remained outside, keeping his distance.

  “It… it’s a trick,” said Nightingale. “Wake is up to something.”

  The rumbling was louder this time, and deeper. The light bulbs in the hallway blew out in rapid succession, and Nightingale stood alone in the dark. The cell was faintly illuminated by the streetlights from outside.

  Breaker gently helped Wake up, her badge brushing against him. “I’m going to trust you, Wake.”

  “Give me a break,” said Nightingale.

  Wake held on to the sheriff’s slim hand.

  “Wake stays behind bars, where he can’t do any more harm.” Nightingale pointed his pistol at Wake.

  “Stand down, Nightingale,” ordered Breaker.

  “The only way Wake’s walking out of there is over my dead…” Nightingale’s eyes were wide in the dim light. “Wait a minute. I remember…” He fumbled through the manuscript pages until he found the one he wanted. The gun still aimed at Wake, Nightingale started reading out loud.