by Ann Self
Act or die.
Jane suddenly grabbed up the spotlight, dropped to a crouch and ran to the half-wall, scrabbling up and over it, moving fast and low along the length of the cement apron. She was happy for the lack of lights—she now preferred darkness herself. Whoever was watching her would have a hard time pin-pointing her location without light—and the noise could also work to her advantage as well.
Time to stop playing into this freak’s hands...
She stopped for a second to peek slowly over the top of the solid rail. It was darker then ever; even the dim light from the Plexiglas panels was disappearing, and the lightning seemed to have moved on for the moment. Jane could just see the glint of dark glass of the skybox on the other side of the arena. She squinted hard, but it was too dark to see if a figure had separated from the observation skybox, and was slinking along the catwalk to the gallery of stadium seats. She had a feeling though, that that was exactly what was happening. The catwalk could take the killer to any second-floor destination; the spectator gallery, the skybox, or back to the overhead lofts of the main barn. She fought the impulse to turn on the lamp, it would just give away her position again and force the killer to duck and hide—not gaining her anything.
As she was poised to continue running to the east wing at the far end of the arena, there was a sudden blinding flash as the professional stage spotlight over the spectators gallery shot a blazing white beam into the ring, barely missing where she crouched behind the half-wall. Jane gasped and ducked. The spotlight zigzagged over the whole arena as if worked by a drunken stagehand, keeping time with the blaring music. She slowly rose over the rail to see if she could detect a pattern to the light path. It seemed to be running a sort of ragged crazy eight, hitting the doorway to the east wing at the top of the arena every few seconds.
The movement of the light slowed and became more deliberate, as if sensing she was in hiding and needed to be rooted out. Music still blasted from the speakers—an attempt to remove her hearing as well as sight. As soon as the wide beam crossed over her head to describe a path along the apron towards the top of the arena and the doorway to the east wing corridor, Jane jumped up and followed it, just out of sight in a dead run; grateful that on this day she had worn running shoes instead of boots. She was fast on her feet, and it might be the one thing that could save her. Music covered the sound of her rubber-soled shoes running on cement, but if the powerful spotlight suddenly stopped or backed up, she would be caught. The beam traveled uninterrupted to the east-wing doorway, however, and she ducked into that wing as soon as the beam passed it.
Jane ran as fast as she dared in the dark, calculating that she had about eight seconds before being nailed. She jumped into a stall on the left, startling its occupant. She pulled the door shut and ducked down, sensing rather than hearing the invisible horse blowing and snorting at her—praying she’d chosen the stall of reasonable horse so she wouldn’t get kicked in the head. The gallery spotlight spilled into the corridor a split second later. The light remained in the aisle, quivering a little as Jane huddled against the stall door. Then it crawled away, but Jane remained where she was. Her instincts were right, and the monster lightbeam reversed and shot right back into the east wing aisle. If she had moved, she would’ve been a deer in the headlights.
Once again the huge beam was stationary. The horse sniffed at her hair. She patted his nose and waited.
The music was abruptly cut off. Silence. She still waited until the brilliant circle of light began to creep away. Jane decided to run for it, but as she started to leave the stall the resident horse let out a squealing whinny. She jumped back into the stall a half second before the spotlight came wrenching back. Unfortunately there was no music to hide the sound of a slamming stall door. The light stayed in place, unmoving now. She peeked through the bars at it, from the darkness of her stall, trying to hear over wind and rain. The light was aimed slightly towards the stalls on the opposite side, igniting every board, bar and latch in white fire. As long as the spotlight didn’t move, she had no idea if the operator was still behind it, or on the move himself. She watched it for another moment. The light was completely motionless, not even a shiver. The only movement was motes of dust floating in its silvery beams. It was locked in place.
The killer was on the move.
Thunder shook the barn to its foundation. The killer could now stalk in his calculated shroud of darkness, while Jane would be forced to maneuver on a lit-up stage. There was, however, a strip of shadow in front of the stalls on her side, because of the arena doorway, and the fact that the beam was fixed slightly towards the right. Jane darted a look at the barely visible horse before she left his stall and whispered: “Thanks a lot!” He snapped ears back and forth as she eased out and ran for her life along the band of darkness, still clutching the flashlamp, avoiding tank trunks and praying there were no rakes left out to trip on. It would though, she thought, be nice if someone had left her a pitchfork to use as a weapon; but they were unfortunately stowed on wagons in the cellar.
She arrived at the intersecting corridors, where the beam was just a faint glow. There was no safe haven, and no time to plan. She was rooted in place, listening to her heavy breathing, pounding heart and ringing ears. Where was the killer now? she wondered. Sneaking down the east-wing aisle behind her in the same shadows she just traveled through? Stalking her from overhead in the lofts? If she ran up the circular staircase, she could run right into him. He could just wait at the top in the dark. She thought about running down to the cellar to search for a weapon. But that would mean she would have to turn on the lamp in that dark spooky cave and give herself away. He could find me before I found a weapon.
On impulse, Jane ran into the old south wing, reasoning the killer would think her too afraid to enter it after what happened to the vet in there. She was glad now for the lack of lights and grateful that she had managed with some difficulty to hang onto the heavy spotlight. It had weight and heft to it, affording her a small sense of power. Jane stayed far to the left in the south wing—away from the narrow staircase that ran up beside a stall to the loft, and away from the dreaded trapdoor—and rushed to Winter Smoke’s stall, the horse that was most familiar with her and the least likely to spook. She quietly slid back the bolt and whispered to the mare and foal as she stepped in, hoping the noisy wind would cover any sounds.
Pulling the door shut silently, she reached through the bars to slide the bolt carefully, metal on metal, crabbing along slowly to home. She glanced back out at the dark gloom of the corridor, still seeing a tiny glow from the distant beam from the arena, and shivered convulsively. Then she sank down into the front corner of the stall, folding herself small, gripping her darkened lamp and trying to be invisible. Listening...hearing nothing but wind, rain and thunder.
After a few minutes her limbs were frozen in place as she was crunched down in the stall. It seemed like a long time had passed without a strange sound or movement and she began to think she had imagined everything. Maybe Reggie and Sam had tried to make it to the house and got knocked out by a tree limb. Or maybe they were up there having a brandy. But then who sent the messages to Brian? Who turned on the music? The spotlight?
The wind got progressively vicious and she heard another giant tree fall to its death. Suddenly her hair felt electrified. She saw blinding flashes of light and heard a deafening explosion, followed by cracking and buzzing as heavy electrical lines were blasted off the barn. Jane gasped and screamed, then slapped a hand over her mouth, hoping the scream didn’t carry over the storm. The barn was in the dark for real, now. No more selective lighting to assist a murderer. Winter Smoke whinnied in panic and moved around the stall nervously. Her foal stood up and pressed himself close to his mother. They were just dark shapes, but Jane could smell their breath and feel their apprehension. It was thick in the air.
“Shhhh, Smoke...” Jane listened hard, straining to isolate the tiniest sound or movement that was out of place. Branches slappe
d against the gutters and scratched at windows. Rafters and coping were tooting like woodwinds, tree trunks twisted and groaned and the barn’s aging timbers creaked, while tons of water fell from the sky. Jane tried to remain small and invisible, crouched in her corner of the stall. She peeked at her watch: 6:45.
Please hurry Brian...
Madeline gasped as she clutched at the Jag’s steering wheel, fighting the weather every step of the way. The storm buffeted her car like a ship on the high seas as she entered the on-ramp to the dreaded highway. Her headlights caught the chattering metal sign that read ROUTE 24 SOUTH. Branches and debris were pummeling the paint off it, and Madeline thought the sign should’ve read abandon hope all ye who enter here. Another sign flew past the ramp, its destination unreadable. It looked like it just decided to go there itself.
“I hope you can make it through this Westy,” Madeline prayed. She tried to recall what leg of the highway had a pile-up. “I think he said 24 north...north of Southbrook,” she mumbled, still fighting the wind and slippery road as she joined the highway, merging with flying debris instead of traffic.
Oh God, I can hardly see the road...
The foal ventured over and stuck a small muzzle in Jane’s hair. He nickered softly because of her familiar scent. “Shhhh...quiet, she whispered.” She patted the foal, and the mare moved over to check things out. A bolt of lightning struck just outside, lighting up the stall like daylight, and Smoke cut loose with another high-pitched screaming whinny, making Jane cringe. She strained her ears hard during a lull in the incessant wind and pounding of rain and was alarmed when she began to once again experience the sensation of crawling insects moving over her limbs, on her scalp and down her back.
“Oh, no...” Let it be my imagination...
The mare’s head shot up and she trained her sensitive ears toward the planked ceiling high overhead and the triangular opening above her wooden hayrack. Smoke knew something other than hay was coming down, and she snorted with alarm. Thunder boomed over the roof as Jane squinted to look through the darkness, trying to see the top of the hayrack. She could smell and feel hay dust fluttering down as she slowly rose to her feet, her heart pounding like a trip-hammer. Lightning struck again just outside the barn, illuminating a dark figure sinking down the rack as the fluffy hay compacted. It also fired up the steel glint of an axe head.
Jane’s hand flew wildly out between the bars of the stall door to grope for the latch, clutching and pulling at the stubborn slide-bolt. It finally slid back when she stopped pressing her weight against the door. She dashed from the stall as Smoke moved her foal to the opposite wall. Jane ran for her life, down the south wing toward the center hallway, still gripping the dark spotlight. She tripped and fell over bales of hay that had been pushed from the overhead loft doorway.
Pretty clever, she thought as she was falling to the floor. Multiple flashes of lightning showed her the enemy bearing down fast, clutching an axe in a menacing grip. Jane rolled and scrambled to her feet in seconds, managing to hang onto the spotlight. She heard footfalls directly behind her and knew that death was nipping at her heels. Thunder cracked through the air as she darted to her circular iron staircase. She swung to face her attacker, snapping on the hefty lamp and aiming 1,700 lumens directly into the eyes—blinding and disorienting the killer.
The forged-steel head of a short-handled axe was suspended in the air, reflecting the spotlight off its sharp, five-inch cutting surface. All Jane could see of her attacker was a ski mask with two dark eye holes. The body was shrouded in a black hooded sweatshirt, and she thought she recognized Sam’s new rubber boots and work gloves. The killer stopped for a moment, trying to see, holding up one gloved hand to block the harsh light; then started to swing the hatchet wildly, slashing blindly back and forth while stepping forward.
Jane leapt like a cat to run up the circular staircase. The person under the shrouded outfit gasped a hoarsely whispered curse. Five or six steps elevated Jane off the floor, but circled her around to face her attacker again, and the enraged killer followed outside the staircase, swinging at her legs and feet through the metal rails—still trying to see after being blinded by the light. Jane sprinted up the steps two at a time, as the axe slashed erratically, making a staccato chink and sparks of light as it hit metal instead of flesh. Her long, fast legs were her best defense, and the killer tried to cut them out from under her.
She raced to the top of the iron staircase in seconds, extinguishing the spotlight as soon as she stepped onto the second floor. She listened to the sound of rubber boots far below slapping on the metal stairs in a slow but determined ascent. Except for occasional flickers of lightning, the upper west wing was in complete darkness; all electrical juice to the barn destroyed when the wires took a hit. Her old room was a short distance down the corridor, but Jane was terrified to go there. It would be the first place the killer would look and she wasn’t sure that the room was still secure.
Where to go? I’ve got to hide.
“The tower!” she whispered under her breath. She remembered the tower door had a dead bolt. She made her way carefully across the corridor to the wooden staircase leading up to the observation tower, grappling for the handrail, still hearing the slapping footsteps reverberating the lower staircase. As soon as she got her hand firmly on the railing, she climbed quickly and stealthily into the even darker gloom of the tower—feeling along the handrail as she went.
She knew the massively heavy tower door would not easily succumb to an axe—it was built like a door to a dungeon and had a huge dead bolt that could only be unlocked from the outside with a key. No one ever locked it, since the hefty iron key had been missing for decades, but there never had been a reason to lock it—until now. It was also the one place in the barn that she could be sure had absolutely no other way in. Jane darted into the round observation tower and stumbled over a cord and metal tool, thinking it was something that Reggie had left out. She eased the big door shut as quietly as possible, wincing at the squeaking hinges as her hands groped for the bolt’s heavy thumb-turn.
The bolt was gone!
Oh my God...
Thunder reverberated through the tower and jangled her bones. Her hands slapped wildly over the thick door in the dark, but all she could find was a splintered indentation and a hole in the wood where the bolt had been sawed out. Adrenaline spurt so hard into her veins it was like a burning flame thrower. She had run right into a trap! Wind growled around the windows and played with her nerves. She hoped, as her heart smashed against her rib cage, that her relentless attacker might think she ran into another wing. Although if he or she took the trouble to destroy the lock, they anticipated her running up here. She tried to listen for footsteps. Whoever it was didn’t seem to be very fast, but that could’ve been the fault of heavy rubber boots.
Nonetheless, the killer was dogged, determined and vicious.
She listened again for the footsteps that carried an axe to end her life. The wind and rain screamed in one partially opened window as she stood in the round tower of storm-wracked glass. The windows were pelted with tropical-force winds that were the hurricane’s calling card. There would be no sightseeing from this perch today. She leaned against the door and strained to hear, breathing hard and pondering who it was under that black hood. Somehow, she had expected it to be Owen. But Owen had a broken right arm. He would never be able to wield an axe like that. She thought she heard something fall and crash and pressed her ear harder to the door, keeping her hand on the doorknob, but making sure she kept her face away from the hole in the door where the bolt had been. Lightning lit up the tower for a second, changing the windows from a circle of dark murky squares to frightening glimpses of pounding rain, making the tower room look like the inside of a giant washing machine. Thunder rumbled again and the sweeping circle of windows rattled in their panes. The clock tower above chimed seven times, every clang playing on her nerves. Please check out the other wings. Please go away. Brian please, please get
here.
Rain beat mercilessly at the Mercedes’ windshield. Brian had a death grip on the wheel as he fishtailed around the off-ramp to Southbrook. Branches and debris struck the windows, causing him to duck involuntarily. As he slid onto the country road, he plowed into foot-deep standing water, making double rooster tails and nearly drowning out the Mercedes; but the big SUV kept on chugging and didn’t let him down. He was holding the vehicle on the road with a wing and a prayer and the help of its four-wheel electronic tracking system. Now he was thanking the Gods for the expensive high-performance machine.
Never know when you’re going to need one.
Careening around a corner, he suddenly had to drive up over a bank to get around a tree falling directly in his path, the branches illuminated eerily in headlights as they glanced off the protective grille guard. Back on pavement, his tires vibrated over electrical lines that lay everywhere, and he was happy the center differential was locked. He could lock all three—center, rear and front—by depressing two more buttons, making good use of the engineering if the going got really rough. He just hoped that a tree or telephone pole wouldn’t suddenly drop on him; there was no button on his dashboard to handle that. The rain sheeted in his view, reflecting his headlights and nearly blinding him on the dark deserted road. A plastic rubbish can bounded and spun crazily across the road and flew through the night just missing his windshield, and then a stray road sign actually glanced off the windshield, leaving a crack that began to travel across his line of sight. Bolts of lightning smashed into the ground all around him. Brian grit his teeth, focusing his entire effort on keeping the big sports-utility-vehicle from sliding off the road or being struck by something big enough to stop it. A video game from hell.
