by Jan Strnad
"Why not? What could happen...he might shoot somebody?"
"Why didn't they take him with them?"
"Maybe it was past his bed time," Brant said dryly. The comment prompted Tom and Brant to check their watches.
"Ten-twenty," Tom said.
"Time enough. Did you find any more guns in the house?"
"No. Do you want the pistol?"
"You keep it. Open the garage door and let's get going."
Brant eased the Saab out of the garage and Tom closed the door behind them. Tom looked back at the Lunger house as they drove away, thinking about Old Man Lunger and the ghosts of murdered children, and he thought of Josh Lunger in an upstairs bedroom, tied to a bed post, whose last comment before they stuffed the sock in his mouth was that they would never get out of town alive.
***
The road through the Lungers' orchard became a street and soon Tom and Brant were gliding silently through Anderson proper.
At first glance the town seemed quiet, but, like a pornographic painting that reveals its obscenities under scrutiny, the quiet streets and familiar houses let slip their secrets by degrees.
Too many lights glowed in too many windows. The occasional gunshot popped and echoed like a Fourth of July firework and died unremarked. Dogs were silent in their yards, alleys were devoid of prowling cats.
As they drove, Brant and Tom became aware of the not-so-subtle evidence of Seth's influence.
Bob Walker knelt by the curb, vomiting from the death angel mushrooms his wife Julie had cooked in his morning omelet.
Night nurse Claudia White's father lay on the front yard where he'd fallen when the quinidine in his gin and tonic stopped his heart.
Matt and Gina Saunders sat slumped in their car in front of their house, suitcases in the trunk and clothes thrown any old way in the back seat. Each had been shot through the skull.
Jerry James carried his new wife, Amber, in his arms, taking her back home. She'd made it six blocks before Jerry was able to chase her down and finish crushing her throat.
Jerry nodded to Tom as he passed, and Tom nodded back.
"Jesus," he whispered to Brant. "The town's gone crazy."
"Just like Eloise."
Brant's voice was distant. He couldn't stop thinking about Josh Lunger's eyes and the evil he'd seen in their depths. Deputy Haws hadn't had that look, or John Duffy. But Haws and Duffy were grownups, and grownups were used to hiding their innermost selves. They smiled when their feet hurt and hid their amusement when someone else slipped on the ice. Kids were transparent. It's what made their joy so infectious and their hurt so intolerable. It's why Brant could peer into Josh Lunger's eyes and see straight through his empty soul and into the dark reaches beyond.
Brant thought about Josh Lunger and he thought about Annie Culler and he thought about Seth, and he began to think that leaving town was not enough for a man to do in the face of such ancient and deep-abiding evil.
Such were his thoughts when Hank Ellerby's Jeep Cherokee ran a stop sign and cut across his path, swerving from side to side as if the driver was drunk. Tom spotted Cindy Robertson in the passenger seat, her eyes wide. He gave a shout.
The Jeep bounced over a curb and flattened a speed limit sign and buried its nose in the trunk of an oak. Brant turned the corner and drove toward the accident. Cindy jumped out of the car and saw Brant and Tom heading her way. A splash of light from a street lamp caught her terrified face, and then she turned and ran.
Twenty-Three
When Tom saw Cindy leap out of Hank's Jeep and run into the alley, he had no choice but to go after her. He left the pistol with Brant, who was going to check on Hank.
The alley was dark but for the occasional security light that came on as Cindy ran past. Tom called to her once but she didn't even slow down. Obviously she'd learned not to trust anyone, and Tom wasn't going to win her confidence by yelling at her while chasing her down. He concentrated on overtaking her. Once she saw that he wasn't going to hurt her, maybe he could convince her to come with them.
He gained on her steadily. Cindy turned to look over her shoulder at him and her foot came down wrong. She cried out in pain and fell. She saw Tom gaining on her and hurried to her feet, but one step on her twisted ankle was all it took to bring her down again. She crawled away from Tom as he ran up. The terror in her eyes caused Tom to slow as he drew nearer.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. He tried to make his voice sound calm and reassuring but he was out of breath from all the running. To his own ears, he sounded like a telephone breather. He opted for a few moments of silence while he caught his breath and Cindy hauled herself to a more comfortable position against someone's board fence.
"We'd better get out of this light," Tom said, nodding toward the security light that had come on at their arrival. "Come on." He moved to a shadowed space between the fence and a detached garage and motioned Cindy over. She looked up at the security light and scooted out of its beam and a few feet closer to Tom. He smiled what he hoped was an engaging, non-threatening sort of smile, then dropped it when she didn't smile back.
"Do you know Seth?" she asked.
Tom nodded. "I know what's going on, if that's what you mean."
"But you're not converted. You're not one of...them."
He shook his head. "Not yet," he said, "but it isn't for lack of some people trying."
Cindy's eyes darted about.
"I don't know who to trust," she said. "They have this code phrase, 'Do you know Seth?' They use it to identify one another. If you say 'yes' it means you've been converted. That's what they call it. Conversion."
"How do you know all this?"
"I overheard my parents talking."
So that was it. She was running from her parents. There was no telling how they'd died or who'd done the "converting," but something had set off her suspicions.
"What else do you know about Seth?"
"Nothing. I don't understand any of this. I know something strange is going on but I don't know what. I know people are coming back, and not just John Duffy and that old woman and Galen. There's more. Lots more. They're killing everybody who isn't converted already."
"What were you doing with Hank?"
"Trying to get out. He saw me running through the alley. He was avoiding the streets himself, he said. I thought he was trying to leave town, too, but he wasn't. He was looking for runaways like me. Cruising the alleys."
Tom consulted his watch. Eleven o'clock. They had to get moving.
"Tom," Cindy said, "I killed him. I killed Hank Ellerby. He grabbed me and I fought him, but I couldn't get loose. I had that knife, the one my brother bought in Tijuana. I stabbed him with it."
"People don't die of a single stab wound, not unless you hit a vital organ," Tom said. "You probably just surprised him into running into that tree."
"I'd like to think that."
"We don't have much time," Tom said, getting to his feet. "We have to put some miles between us and Anderson before all of these corpses start coming back."
Her eyes pleaded with him. "Take me with you," she said, and Tom replied, "Sure." He held out his hand to her, helped her up. She tested her twisted ankle and winced.
"I can't walk on it," she said.
"Lean on me. Come on. We have to hurry."
"Of course," she said, and she pulled him close and kissed him.
***
Brant kept Hank covered with the pistol until he was sure he was dead.
Hank's chest was wet with blood. The wound was low. If the angle was right, a knife blade could've entered at that spot and gone up under the ribs and straight into his heart.
A hunting rifle sat on the floor, canted up against the seat. It was Hank's new Winchester. Brant didn't know beans about rifles, but he knew from the Saturday morning talk at Ma's that Hank was fatherly proud of his new gun. Nobody went hunting at ten-thirty at night, not around these parts, anyway. Brant wondered if the new rifle had been drafted in
to service to Seth. Maybe Seth was on patrol for people like Brant and Tom and Cindy Robertson.
Then he noticed, lying on the floor at Hank's feet, dappled in blood, a bundle of envelopes held together by a fat rubber band. Brant pulled off the band and read the envelopes. All were addressed in a woman's hand and lacked a return address, but they were postmarked from Chicago where Hank went once or twice a year on business. Brant opened one letter and found what he expected. Hank's wife would not have been pleased with the content. The letter spoke of longing and understanding and "our situation," and it didn't take Brant long to realize that Hank Ellerby's life was torn between obligation to a wife and children on one hand and undeniable passion on the other.
Brant felt a sudden chill. A man does not take love letters on patrol duty. Hank Ellerby was running away, and someone had killed him, and that "someone" was Cindy Robertson.
Brant had to find Tom, and fast.
***
Cindy's lips against his felt so good, Tom wondered how he'd ever had the strength to break up with her. Maybe it wasn't strength at all, but sheer stupidity. She felt so right in his arms, he must have been seriously mixed up in the head to think he was better off without her.
The one impediment to their love had been removed, thanks to the Risen. Anderson held no sway over Cindy anymore. They were headed in the same direction, she and him, away from their little town and out into the real world.
Over Cindy's shoulder, Tom saw headlights appear at the end of the alley. Brant, probably. The car drove slowly, searching. The headlights winked off and on and then winked again. Brant was looking for him.
Tom gently eased himself out of Cindy's embrace.
"There's our ride," he said, and Cindy turned to look at the headlights. Tom said, "Not much time. We have to hurry."
"I want to show you something," Cindy said.
Tom stepped to the middle of the alley and waved his arms to Brant, wondering as he did so if he'd just given them away to some Risen, maybe to Hank Ellerby who'd gotten the drop on Brant and come after them. But no, the headlights were too low to be Hank's Cherokee. It had to be Brant in the Saab.
"Look at this," Cindy said, cradling something against her stomach.
"What is it?"
"Just come look."
"Why don't you just tell me?" he began, drawing closer, but then the Tijuana switchblade went snik and the blade shot out to its full length and in one continuous movement it leaped forward headed for Tom's chest cavity. He jumped back instinctively.
Cindy lunged at him again with the knife. She moved frantically as the headlights approached from down the block.
"Hey!" Tom shouted, dodging the slashing blade. "It's okay! I'm not one of them!"
"Not yet," she said. She lunged again with the knife. She was awkward on the twisted ankle and Tom sidestepped easily. She swiped the knife through the air two more times and each time Tom leaped back, out of striking distance. She tried again and Tom grabbed her by the wrist. He twisted her hand, folded her arm behind her back, then pulled it up until it hurt enough for her to drop the blade. He caught it and held it to her throat.
"When did it happen?" he demanded.
"Last night, when I was sleeping."
"Who did it?"
"My father. But Tom, it's not a bad thing. Once you meet Seth you'll understand."
"You wouldn't care if I slit your throat right now."
"I'd welcome it. This ankle hurts like hell."
The Saab pulled up and Brant leaped out of the car.
"Looks like my warning comes too late," Brant said as he strode up. "Hank's dead, a knife through the ribs. He was trying to get away."
"Let me convert you, Tom," Cindy said. "You'll be glad once it happens. You're just afraid of change, but it's change for the better. Let Seth heal you. Whatever's wrong, Seth can fix it."
"I'm happy just as I am."
"Is that right?" she said flatly.
No, it wasn't. The truth was, Tom would have been hard pressed to name a single happy moment he'd had since he'd broken up with her...until a minute ago when their mouths were together and the empty ache he'd felt for the past few months was gone.
"What do we do with her?" Tom asked. He held the knife pressed close against Cindy's neck, on the jugular. He knew what he should do. He should press a little bit harder, break the skin, rupture the vein and let her die. She was dead already, despite the fact that she was warm and breathing and, even in this unseemly position, felt so damned good in his arms.
"Kill me," she said. "What's so hard about that? I'll be back before you know it. What's stopping you? Do I have to scream to make you do it?"
"She'll have the whole town down on us, Tom."
"So I should just slit her throat, is that it?"
"He's right, you know," Cindy said. "I'll have them running from their houses, chasing you through the streets, chasing you down like rabbits. Go ahead, cut my throat. I'm not afraid. Do you want me to struggle so you can tell yourself it was an accident?"
"Why are you doing this to me? Is it revenge, is that it?"
"I want you to know there's nothing to be afraid of. If you won't let me convert you, let someone else. Let Galen. Let Peg."
"What about Peg?" Brant said. He grabbed Cindy's shoulders and pinched them tight. She winced under his grip. "Is Peg one of them? Tell me!"
"Probably. Most everybody's converted. Join us. Join Seth and everything will be all right. What have you got to lose, anyway? Not much, from what I hear."
Brant raised the pistol to Cindy's face. He pressed the end of the barrel against her cheek, aimed it up toward her eye.
"You're telling me this doesn't frighten you, not even a bit?"
"It's annoying the hell out of me, is what it's doing. It hurts. I wish you'd pull the trigger and quit fucking around."
Cindy gasped and Brant saw red liquid spilling around the knife. Cindy's heart gave a beat and the blood spurted and Brant jumped back reflexively. Blood flowed over Tom's knife hand and down Cindy's front as Tom brought the blade around. Tom relaxed his grip and let her slide out of his arms. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her mouth curled into a smile as she collapsed to the ground.
Brant looked at Tom's face and saw the tears streaming over his cheeks. Tom threw the switchblade to the ground and shook the blood from his hand as best he could. He stood there looking down at the body. He wiped a clean sleeve across his face, destroying the tears.
"Shit," Tom said. His voice choked.
"Come on. We have to get to the hospital. We have to get Peg."
"It's too late."
"We don't know that. Come on. There's still a chance."
Brant pulled at Tom's arm and Tom moved reluctantly. He walked like a condemned man to the car. He stood looking at the door handle for long moments, trying to remember how it worked, what it was for, what he was doing in that spot at that time.
Finally Brant opened the door from inside and commanded Tom to get in. They were getting Peg, he said, and the Devil take anybody who got in their way.
***
Tom and Brant's thoughts were running deep. Neither spoke as the Saab navigated the dark streets. Occasionally Brant spotted another pair of headlights and casually turned the corner, then he watched the rear view mirror for any sign that they were being followed, his heart racing and his fingers drumming on Hank Ellerby's Winchester.
He kept thinking of Josh Lunger's eyes, mentally flipping back and forth between the dead, otherworldly boy he'd tied to a bedpost and the exuberant child of the hallway photographs. What Seth had done to Josh was worse than murder. Seth had taken a lovely and loving child and ripped out his soul and twisted what was left into an abomination. Josh was as dead as any corpse in Wildwood Cemetery. What walked the earth in his guise was a thing neither living nor dead, soulless as the devil and with a demon's taste for blood.
How many children lived in Anderson? How many had already received Seth's "blessing?" How many
more would be murdered and resurrected if another midnight passed and Seth's crusade were allowed to continue unopposed?
Tom's thoughts were at least as black. He studied his hand, the one that had pressed the knife to Cindy's throat and parted her flesh. He'd felt her warm blood cascade over those fingers. The blood remained, dried under his fingernails, lodged in the crevices of his skin. Cindy's blood.
Only now, with her loss, did Tom realize how much she'd meant to him. What a fuckhead he was. He'd turned his back on the best thing that had ever happened to him. He'd shut her out of his life, not because of what she was, but because of what she stood for in his screwed up, twisted, bullshit-befuddled mind. Who knows what might have been if they'd gotten out of Anderson together, traveled, seen the world?
He tried to tell himself that the creature he'd killed was not Cindy, not really, but something that had taken her place. He'd killed...temporarily, for less than an hour, actually...a being that looked like Cindy and, Jesus, that kissed and felt like Cindy, but it wasn't her, not in any way that mattered. That's what he told himself over and over as the car glided between pools of light from the street lamps, as it moved with excruciating stealth toward the hospital. That's what he had to believe or the guilt would have been unbearable.
Tears welled in his eyes. The pressure in his chest demanded release, but he was not going to break down, damn it, he was not going to break down in front of Brant. He was going to see this thing through like a man. Whatever rewards life had in store for him, they lay beyond this terrible, black night. He had to muscle his way through it or die trying.
With the delays, the waiting with the headlights off while a car passed, with the circuitous route they were forced to take, it was past eleven-thirty by the time Brant and Tom reached the hospital. Peg's car was in the parking lot. Brant pulled into the empty space beside it but did not turn off the engine.
He swiveled in the seat to face Tom. "I'm not going with you," he said. "You'll have to convince her yourself. Tell her the truth, lie to her, do whatever you have to do but get it done before midnight in case...." Brant knew what he had to do, had known it for the last half hour, but speaking the words aloud made it too real.
