They drove into the darkness. After a short leg, the driver shut the air vents.
“I can’t take this no more,” he said. “Smells like cow shit, for Chrissake. Fucking hick towns.”
Christensen disagreed as he rolled up his window. “Naw, it’s more like a dump. Sir.”
Brikker was not surprised at the darkness. What surprised was that foul odor; the hideous transformation of Strong. The man rarely suffered but minor aches and the occasional bout of nausea, but how the Turn had affected him in this manner, yet showed not the least in the private, was a puzzle. Perhaps it had something to do with the homosexual gene (of which he was certain existed and could be eradicated in time), but that was only speculation. More likely, the queer was simply one of the fortunate few who suffered no ill effects of the Turn, unlike the vast majority predisposed to certain side effects of the magic. And thus it did not surprise him when he reached up and touched his cheek and found it blistered and worn. He could smell his own blood from the open sores. Could taste it on his lips.
What most suprised—and intrigued—was this strange turn of events. Richards had struggled, clearly, to summon the magic, had nearly destroyed himself in the process. Had nearly destroyed all of them. He could still see the burning bodies in his mind, the fall from human to human waste, terrifying. He could not recall such horror, nor such agony. And from this moment onward, he would remember the agony.
The world was different now; of that he was certain. Perhaps a rebirth of ten minutes had come … perhaps fifteen. Nonetheless, the effects would be far-reaching in every sense: there would be mild chaos and confusion for a radius of several miles. Miles of wasteland, yes, and perhaps that would serve as a saving grace. But what he did not know, could not possibly know, were the full implications of this strangest of Turns. Richards had not only struggled, he had suffered the loss of his greatest strength: control. Grasping Time’s Wheel and drawing it back without thought, with no guiding hand … who knew its danger. The Turn itself had been unsure in its mission, and already this new world had taken a darker path. The air reeked of filth; Strong was a fright, as was he. He would heal, surely, his nausea would pass, and his eyesight, of which he had never suffered the least ill, would clear. Yet the question tasked him: What darker surprises awaited?
“Sir.” It was Strong.
“Shit,” Christensen muttered. He was struggling to read the directions on his crumpled notes.
Brikker lowered his window. At least all had not changed.
In the distance, the farmhouse burned.
“That’s the place,” Christensen said. “Jesus.”
In the other direction, far to their right along the road perpendicular to them, Brikker saw a pair of headlamps cutting through the blackness. The vehicle was moving at quite the rate of speed. The bumpkin who would be hero, he thought. Or was it the farm boy?
It mattered little. What mattered was avoiding another collision.
“Slow down,” he snapped.
“Slow down?” Strong asked. “What for?”
“Do it.”
Strong relaxed his foot on the gas and brought them under the speed limit. Christensen almost turned to look back, but seemed to know enough not to.
Brikker nodded to himself as a second pair of lights appeared, perhaps a quarter mile behind the first vehicle. It was closing quickly.
All three vehicles converged toward the intersection. The first, a flatbed, Brikker now discerned, had slowed as it approached. It was still a hundred yards shy.
“Stop,” Brikker said. “Let them pass.”
Strong hesitated, clearly wondering why, but followed the order to the letter. The black car slowed, creeping up on the intersection. It finally stopped, a safe thirty feet from the stop.
And waited.
~ 10
Angina pectoris—a condition characterized by chest pain, when the muscles of the heart receive an insufficient supply of oxygen due to arteriosclerosis—what most call the hardening of the arteries—did not kill Allan Jefferson Hembruff.
Ben Caldwell did.
The nitro had done its work. He had managed to deliver a pill in time, and the pain he now could bear. His numb arm was still numb, his bum leg still bum, but he could carry on. The fire stoked him.
He could only hope he could get there in time.
Time … time had turned, he was certain. It was the only way to explain the sudden darkness. And if Kain Richards had worked his magic, something was wrong. Horribly wrong.
A car approached the intersection coming the other way. It pulled up short along the side of the road.
Then, in the rear-view, he saw the light.
Ben Caldwell’s pickup emerged from the night like a phantom, passing at breakneck speed and whipping sideways in front of him. The boy had hit the brakes hard, not to stop, but to turn, of all things, turn, and when the rear of the pickup clipped the front side of his vehicle, with only one good arm he could not keep the wheel straight. The flatbed spun out of control, its rear fishtailing, and when its wheels caught and the whole mess flipped over, careening into the ditch and the steering wheel crushing him to death, the last thing Allan Jefferson Hembruff saw was not light, not hope … only darkness.
~ 11
Ben saw the black car.
It was slowing to a crawl.
He had not expected that; he had expected it to speed through the intersection. But now it had stopped, well short of it.
Brikker knows, he thought. He knows there’s going to be an accident.
And he was right.
“All steak,” he said. “No sizzle.”
Ben put the metal down and pulled out beside the flatbed. He had no idea what had happened to Rye and his family in the other timeline, but he hoped Al Hembruff had a good set of brakes, that the man would make the most of the time he was about to buy him. He gave it some more and passed the flatbed, and just as he was about to turn his pickup into an off-road vehicle, he hit the brakes and cranked the wheel, accidentally clipping the flatbed with the rear corner of his truck. He whipped sideways, the flatbed, too, their lights dancing through the darkness. He did not see the flatbed flip in his rear-view, and as he regained control and stuck to his plan, in the next instant he was plowing through a field and rocking out of a ditch, flying toward the side of the black car.
~ 12
Christensen died instantly.
Strong made the play of trying to back out of the path of the pickup hurtling toward them, but the wheels failed to grip. The Valiant had no chance. The truck struck broadside in a thunderous din of steel ramming steel, crushing the passenger side as easily as one could crush an airplane made of paper. Glass exploded as both vehicles shot to the middle of the road and scraped to a halt. It was over in a breath, and in the ensuing moments after the wreckage settled, only a faint hiss could be heard.
Strong groaned. A shard of glass stuck in his jaw. He reached up, and it came free with a curse. He led his hand down his leg and braced himself, then bit down hard as he yanked on the hot metal that had impaled him just below the knee. It wouldn’t come, and he uttered a guttural sound that was almost inhuman when his hand slipped, the steel fragment slicing clear across his palm.
“Bloody FUCK,” he stammered, to the smashed headlamp staring him in the face. Christensen was laid up against his shoulder, one eye splayed wide; the right half of his head was soundly crushed by the bumper thrust into him.
The lieutenant turned his head as far as he was able. The back seat was empty. He regarded the private with disdain, muttered Faggot, then struggled from the vehicle, whereupon he nearly collapsed on his injured leg. Already he had his weapon drawn. He surveyed the damage quickly, and then suddenly limped round, his .38 poised to kill.
“Jesus,” he said, and stood down.
Brikker stood cold. His thoughts tasked him. He had expected the boy to pass as he had before, for him to carry on to the fire, but it would seem he had been caught completely at a disadv
antage. To be sure, he could not have anticipated such a bold move (he had to marvel at the randomness nonetheless), yet as quickly as he had seen the pickup change direction, he had placed a hand to the door release. He had made it out just in time.
Clearly this simple farm boy knew what he was doing. It would seem that he knew a good deal.
Strong turned and started for the pickup. Blood seeped from his jaw and from his hand, which Brikker found oddly amusing—and troubling—for the man had suffered similar injuries under completely different circumstances in the earlier timelines. Fate seemed to find a way.
Brikker raised a hand to his trained monkey … No. He surveyed the wreckage. The boy sat slumped over the wheel. Dead or alive, he was inconsequential; the farmer just as so.
What did matter, was Richards. Nothing more.
“Fate,” he whispered, and whispered it twice.
He would find a way.
The good Doctor turned about, and Strong followed.
~ 13
Kain could not be certain of where—or when—he was.
Night had fallen, and for all he knew, it could be yesterday … or last week.
Only now had his vision begun to return. His eyes still burned, still failed him by offering only indistinct shapes. He moved in staggered steps, for he had tried to rush down this dark and unfamiliar road, only to find his mind and body in anguish, his will wanting, so wanting. He had fallen, more than once, and it had taken everything to rise to his feet; indeed, he had very nearly blacked out from the pain. His stomach had come twice, and in the act of wiping the mess from his lips, he had felt the sores there. Letting his fingers roam along his face, he had discovered hardened skin and bloody blisters. The air was dirty and rank, and only minutes ago he had tumbled into a ditch in a stupor, only to find the grasses nothing more than sand. He was no longer that man who could do magic. He was now the destroyer of worlds.
The gauzy light from the farmhouse guided him. As he moved farther along, he discerned more of his environment. The dark rise of the barn against the stars. The small bulge of the guesthouse. The fleeting outline of the house itself. He could see lights upstairs now. He turned round to certain his bearings, saw another light far in the distance, and took comfort in its familiar glow.
Still, he had no idea of Brikker’s location; the man could be a thousand miles distant. Or one.
Despite the agony, he quickened his pace, for he clung to the belief that the Turn had cast but minutes with its random die. And if that were so, then Ray Bishop had to be stopped.
NO—
He saw the first flicker of light against that inky sky; the first flames to fuel his worst fear. He cried out into that dark abyss that enveloped him, cursing the pain, cursing his God, and then, as quickly as his broken body could take him, started to run.
~ 14
Lynn shouted No, but it was too late. Already her son was lunging for the beast at her door.
Ray met him head on, and they grappled. Ryan got a hand on his wrist, keeping the knife at bay, but Ray used his ample size to thrust him against the wall. The boy pushed back, and they whipped sideways. Then, in one desperate move, Ryan dug in and pushed, driving them down the steps and into the backyard in a heap.
Lynn bolted to the doorway. She had to back off for the flames, which had climbed the outside walls to the second floor. Ryan was on his feet, but it was clear he could hardly see, the way he was searching with his one usable eye. Gamely, he brought two fists to bear. Ray was on his knees, struggling to rise; his leg was bleeding, his jeans torn along his shin. He slashed at his son, scraping him across the abdomen. The boy slipped back with a small groan. Ryan looked down, saw a thin crimson streak across his splayed shirt, and in the next instant, his father was up and gunning for him.
He backed off toward the shed, but his legs failed him. His father was on him, the knife coming down, and only a near miss saved him. He sidestepped but tripped himself up. Ray lunged at him, and they fell into each other. They struggled, neither gaining the upper hand, and when Lynn cried her son’s name, his chin came to rest on his father’s shoulder. She called him again, her voice rising, and this time he looked to her, his eye wide and searching. He uttered Ma—it barely came, for the anguish—and then he slipped to his knees. He fell limp as he hit the ground. Blood spilled from the wound in his side, and when Lynn saw it, she screamed.
Ray Bishop turned, the blood of his son glistening along the blade. He was a monster of dark black eyes, sewn on a mask of fright. His skin was boiled and bubbled, his scar a hideous dead snake. He spied her up and down with the oddest of looks, as if she were a total stranger to him. And then, with a wriggling grin, he took a step back, to bask in the glory of the blaze. He let out a small laugh. He looked completely insane. And if the looks and the laughter were not proof enough, he had broken into song.
“Can’t you hear it, can’t you please? It’s my heart, I’m on my knees—”
Lynn spun round in a panic, and the sight she saw next only fueled her fear. Lee was curled up on the floor with her back against the woodstove, her hands fists, her arms held taught against her face. Lynn bolted for her. She had to pry the girl’s arms apart, and when she did, her daughter’s terror gripped her. Lee’s face was stone. Her body quivered. Lynn took her by the hand and tried to pull her up, but at that instant, cried out, as her hair was nearly ripped from its roots.
She lost her footing as Ray dragged her. She slipped hard on her back. She tried to latch onto a chair as he pulled her past the kitchen table, but her grip faltered. Ray stomped on her right hand, crushing the bones in two fingers. Lynn wailed. He kicked her square in the jaw, and she felt a tooth crack and come loose. She spat it out with a thick gob of blood. Scrambling to right herself, she saw the drapes in flames, the fire clawing at the ceiling now. She shouted—RUN LEE, RUN!—and Ray snared her by the hair and thrust her head back. He brought the knife to her throat, and just as he did, she shot an elbow to his groin. He doubled as he dropped the knife, and when she went for it, it slipped through her fingers and skidded across the floor toward the door. She crawled for it, nearly had it, only to suffer the agony of his knee driving hard into her back. She hit the floor and was winded. Ray grabbed her head with his big paw and smashed her face to the floor. The impact dazed her. Blood dribbled from her nostrils.
Ray snatched the knife. He took her up by the hair again, went to lift her up, and this time she rolled away from him. She managed to get to all fours, and then, with all the strength she could muster, sprang headfirst into him. Her inertia sent them flying toward the open doorway, and only Ray’s quick hand stopped them from tumbling down the steps. He latched onto the jamb and held them back, but a second effort from Lynn drove them through. She tried to gather solid footing but slipped on a step, and she came down on top of him with a grunt.
Ray rolled her off; he still clutched the knife. He brought it down, his aim untrue but true enough, the blade just breaching the skin on her left arm. She let out a small shriek. She saw her son, and it was enough to get her moving. She scrambled to her knees, and that was as far as she made it. Ray drove a fist into her face, rocking her to the ground in a fog.
Lynn Bishop saw stars as she looked up. Ray loomed over her like a dark giant, the house ablaze behind him. He held the knife at his side, and just when she thought he would finish her, he palmed it shut and slipped it into his pocket. He muttered some kind of gibberish, shouted No! Get out! and then started to sing. His eyes were black and empty. He turned about with a grin and hobbled to the steps. Lynn reeled when she saw the gas can, and when the monster scooped it up and made his way into the mouth of that raging inferno, she let out a silent scream for her daughter … and then the world went black.
~ 15
Lee-Anne Bishop perished. She died four years ago.
The leaves had turned apple and orange, the days shorter, the nights longer, the fall harvest well underway. She had been in her junior year for just three weeks.
She had died in the shed.
She had died twenty-six times since. She counted.
She saw the fire; saw it creeping towards her with its deadly fingers. She knew its wrath … how well she did. It would take her, take her and turn her into a hideous freak, and though her mind screamed for her to rise up and run, Run, RUN, a bigger part of her screamed No.
There were worse ways to die.
~ 16
The fire saved her.
Smoke engulfed her, choking her, and she snapped out of her stupor in a coughing fit. Her eyes burned. A great wave of heat overwhelmed her. She saw the flames reaching, clawing towards her along the walls and the ceiling. She nearly screamed.
The girl scrambled to her bare feet. The table was in flames now, and two of the chairs had caught as well. She made a dash for the corridor and instinctively headed for the front door. Fire waited for her outside, but she saw an opening. She was halfway along when part of the awning came crashing down on the veranda in flames. The floor trembled; the entire house groaned. She turned in a flurry, and just as she did, she saw him. Saw her father with the gas can, rising like a demon up the back steps.
She panicked. Felt that scream rising in her throat. Already she could feel his filthy hands touching her. She drew a hard breath and held it, for what she believed was the last one she would ever take. But before she allowed herself to scream, to die again, she closed her eyes and said NO.
Lee-Anne Bishop bolted for the stairs.
~ 17
Kain stumbled as he passed the guesthouse, his legs giving to their agony. He fell to his knees, out of breath … out of time. Fire engulfed the home.
He was too late. Again.
He turned, suddenly. He thought he heard a resonant din far in the distance; he might have seen fleeting lights. He could not be certain of either.
Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller Page 46
