Dark Inside (9 page)

The noise came again. She’d been so busy fantasizing that she barely heard it. But it was there, a tiny scratching sound. Footsteps crunching in the dirt. A small cough. She covered her mouth with her hands.

There was a loud noise as someone grabbed hold of the doors and slid them open. More footsteps. She couldn’t tell if it was one person or two and she wasn’t stupid enough to pop her head up and check. It had to be just one. If there were two they’d be talking to each other. But who was it?

From her hiding spot under the blanket, she could just make out the five feet of flooring in front of her. Why hadn’t she thought to try to reposition herself where she could get a better view of the door? She waited, her ears perked for what might be coming.

The person began moving toward the middle of the barn. They were taking their time, small unrushed steps, obviously in no hurry to kill her. They had to know she was there. Maybe they could smell her fear?

The person began to whistle.
Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling, Clementine.
How she hated that song. Heath used to sing it to her whenever he wanted to annoy her.

She should have grabbed a weapon. Anything. There were so many other courses of action she could have taken. Instead she’d managed to pretty much serve herself up on a platter. She sure was living up to that blond-cheerleader stereotype.

A few weeks ago someone e-mailed a joke questionnaire on how to survive a zombie attack. She’d scored pretty high. Of course she’d stated she’d head down to the local weapons store and arm herself before holing up in an isolated cabin in the north. Okay, so it wasn’t the best thing to use as a comparison
to how well she could do in a real-life emergency situation, but the whole concept kept creeping into her mind. What a joke. She couldn’t even survive a few hours up against psychotic humans.

The whistler moved slowly and steadily across the barn. At least she’d been smart enough to hide in a corner close to the door. As he passed her she fought the urge to move. She was like a mouse being hunted by an eagle. She needed to stay still and not jump and flee. Running blind never served the mouse justice, and it probably wouldn’t work for her.

Funny how her legs had refused to work earlier, and now they were itching to kick.

Dear Heath, you were right. If I get out of this alive I’ll take those tae kwon do lessons you said I needed. Just promise me you’ll be here to help me get those punches right. Give me a sign to let me know you’re not just a figment of my imagination and are still alive and well in Seattle. It’ll give me the courage to kick ass. I promise.

She needed to stop this. Talking to her maybe/more-than-likely dead brother wasn’t going to help the situation.

Meanwhile the whistler had grown quiet. She strained her ears, listening. Was he gone? Had he slipped back out the door while she was making all her imaginary resolutions?

No, there it was again—the sound of a boot scraping against wood from across the barn. Her assailant was climbing the ladder to the rafters. All she had to do was wait until he reached the top and she could get out. Moving as slowly as she could, she pushed the blanket off her head to get a better view. The doors to the barn were wide-open. She could slip out without making a sound.

Her assailant swung his foot up onto the beams. The creaking noise above was the signal she was waiting for. It was now or never. Carefully she pulled back the blanket and scanned
the area. The barn floor was empty. She didn’t even look at the rafters. She forced herself to walk quietly instead of run, fully aware that her back was like one giant target. There were no shouts or sudden footfalls. No one rushed toward her. She moved quickly but cautiously. One misplaced step, one creaky board, could end it.

Outside the air was cool on her face. She had forgotten to breathe. She inhaled heavily, and her wobbly legs continued to hold her weight. Avoiding the urge to lean against the barn and rest, she forced herself to keep moving. She would get the keys. The truck was hidden on the other side of the house. Whoever was in the barn would probably be there for at least ten more minutes. With a little luck she’d be able to start the car and be halfway down the lane before he got out of the rafters.

It was one hundred feet from the barn to the house. She could see the porch light burning. Turning it on was the last thing her mother had done before they left for the town hall. She always left it on no matter how much her father grumbled over the electric bill. They would never wait up for her again.

Dear Heath, I’ve really gone and messed things up. It’s not like an exam where I can take notes. I don’t get a chance to repeat this if I fail. Help me reach the truck. Give me strength, brother.

One hundred feet. Not far at all. But it was similar to crossing the open sea, and she didn’t have any shark repellent.

It was time to go. No time like the present. If she waited too long it would be game over. She began to run, silently cursing herself every time her foot hit the grass. She couldn’t be making that much noise. She was light enough to always be on the top of the cheerleading pyramid, and her mother was constantly complaining that she needed to gain a few pounds to fill out properly.

When she reached the safety of the house, she was overcome with such relief that she almost broke down in tears. Instead she forced herself onward, making her way around the side to the back.

Her hands were shaking as she unlocked the back door. The interior of the house was dark. Mom may have left the porch light on, but Dad had the sense to make sure the house wasn’t burning any extra electricity. Leaving the key in the lock, she crossed the kitchen in three strides. She reached blindly into the fruit basket until she felt the leather key chain. Mom’s address book was open on the table. She ripped Heath’s address out as quietly as possible, folded the piece of paper, and stuck it in her pocket. Now all she had to do was get back out to the truck.

“Clem?”

She nearly peed herself.

Craig Strathmore stepped out from the shadows beside the fridge. His eyes were wide and unsure. His hands were clasped together and pressed against his stomach, white-knuckled in an awkward prayer. There was a small gash under his right eye; blood was smeared across his cheek from where he’d wiped it.

“Thank God it’s you,” he said. “I was looking for you.”

“Craig? What happened? Why are you here?”

He looked down at his feet before taking another step forward. “Town hall. They’re all dead. I don’t understand. Henry Tills killed my parents. Shot them down. I mean, I’ve known him my entire life. My dad bowled with him. How could he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I slipped. Henry raised the gun at me and I slipped. Wet floor. Fell. The shot missed me by inches. He would have
gotten a second chance, too, but he got distracted by my mother. Killed her. Right in front of my eyes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I saw you sneak out the doors. I didn’t know where else to go. I hoped maybe I could find you. I don’t understand. Why are they doing this?”

“I don’t know. But we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Okay. Where are we gonna go?”

“Des Moines. The police will know what to do. We have to hurry. Someone’s in the barn looking for me. You’re lucky they didn’t find you first.”

“I’m scared,” he whispered. His voice shuddered, and he closed his eyes tightly, his forehead crinkling into tiny lines. He’d aged twenty years in the course of a single evening. He opened his arms and waited, looking like a small child awakened from a bad dream.

There were dark stains on his letterman jacket, and it took her a few moments to realize it was blood. He was covered in it.

She didn’t know what to do. How much time did they have?

Holding out her arms, she embraced him. She couldn’t do anything else. She was helpless. His hands wrapped around her, resting on the small of her back, fingers cold and stiff on top of her jacket.

They rocked back and forth on the linoleum floor. He held her tight, desperately; she could feel the tautness of his chest pressing against her. Muscular arms gripping, pressing weight against her body. His head dropped down to rest against the curve of her neck. He exhaled into her hair; lips puckered and tasted her skin.

“Craig?”

“Yes?”

“You need to let go now.”

“And if I don’t?”

She tried to pull back. Fingernails dug into her jacket, gouging her back. He drew her in closer than she would have believed possible, lips pressed against her ear. He began to whistle.

Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling Clementine.

She would have liked to scream but her throat closed. All the air inside her lungs was vacuumed out of her body.

“What’s the matter, darling Clementine?”

She twisted her body, let her legs go slack, tried to worm her way out from his grasp. But he wasn’t letting go. She clawed at the back of his jacket, his arms; she couldn’t reach high enough to scratch at his face. He had made her his prisoner and she’d welcomed the embrace.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

“You should have heard your mother’s screams,” Craig whispered in her ear. “They were exquisite. How she cried.”

This was not Craig. This person holding her was not the guy she knew. Two months ago they’d been driving and hit a raccoon. The Craig she’d grown up with had pulled over to the side of the road and gotten misty-eyed. He may have been a football star, but he loved animals and was a vegetarian. The boy she knew would never get off on trying to scare her like this.

“Who are you?” she asked. There was something odd about his eyes. They were darker. At first she thought the shadows were playing tricks on her. But that wasn’t it. The veins were black.

“I’m Craig.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m the darkest corner of his soul. I’m all the things he
wanted to be, everything he dared to think when no one else was around. I’m the real Craig Strathmore. I’m his evolution. His true self.”

“No. You’re. Not.” Raising her foot, she slammed her heel down onto the side of his leg. Craig grunted and loosened his grip just enough for her to slide out of his grasp. She dropped to the floor, reached out, and grabbed the first thing she found, which happened to be the paperweight her mother used to keep the kitchen door open. She brought it up and drove it straight into his knee.

Craig grunted both in surprise and pain. She climbed to her feet and started for the door, but he grabbed her ankle, bringing her back to the floor and cracking her knee on the linoleum. Her cartilage made an awful thunking noise, but she stumbled on, ignoring the pain and kicking out at him with her uninjured leg. He brought his arms up to defend his face, freeing her for one quick moment.

It took her a total of three seconds to get outside. Pressing the unlock button on the key chain, she threw open the car door and climbed into the cab. The engine came to life on the first try, and she turned on the headlights before putting the truck into gear.

The driveway to her parents’ house was filled with people. There were at least a dozen of them, standing completely still and staring back at her. She recognized Henry and James Tills, Sam Anselm, and some of the others she’d seen earlier at the parking lot. Their clothing was wet with blood, black and shiny in the moonlight.

They were blocking the road.

Craig Strathmore, or whoever he was now, came out onto the front porch, limping, his eyes blazing, and heading directly toward her.

She didn’t need a road. She hadn’t been raised on a farm for nothing. Putting the car into first gear, she pressed hard on the gas, spun the wheel, and drove directly into the cornfields. It was a bumpy ride but the truck had four-wheel drive for a reason.

She didn’t look in the rearview mirror to see if they were following her.

It was two miles to the road through the fields. She made it in record time. Her tires crunched as they spun up onto the highway. She pointed the car in the direction leading away from Glenmore.

She drove for an hour before finally pulling over to the side. There was no other traffic. She hadn’t seen a single vehicle.

Dear Heath, there’s something weird going on. The earthquakes were scary enough, but then the news started reporting all this violence. I didn’t really believe it until tonight. It’s everywhere, isn’t it? Whatever it is, once I’m done in Des Moines I’m coming to find you. It was what Mom wanted, and I’ll grant her that last wish. So you’d better not be dead. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll be mad if you go on without me. Don’t leave me alone like this.

She turned on the radio but couldn’t find a station. Nothing but static. She played with the dials for about ten minutes, even climbed out of the truck to check the antenna.

It was as if she were the last person on earth.

He awoke to the last rays of the western sun warming his pillow. Sweat covered his body, enough to soak the hairs behind his ears, and his upper body felt slightly damp. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep; in fact he was shocked he’d done it. A few hours ago he didn’t think he’d ever close his eyes again. After Evans dropped him off, he couldn’t stop pacing. Every few minutes he’d look out the window, heart pounding, muscles stiff enough to shatter. After an hour or so, he didn’t know what else to do so he lay down for a bit to try and clear his head.

Getting up off the bed, he stumbled into the living room, tripping over the bag of garbage he’d placed by the door but forgot to take out that morning.

The television still wasn’t broadcasting, and he didn’t even bother to check the Internet. In the kitchen he turned on the coffeepot and then went over to the window to take a look. A part of him still believed that the two officers were going to show up at his doorstep any minute, ready to finish him off because of the crimes he’d witnessed.

But the street was empty. Whitefish seemed to have shut down early.

They hadn’t gone straight home after dropping Joe off. Instead, he and Evans had driven to the police department and found it empty. No cars in the parking lot. The front doors were locked. They’d banged on the glass, but no one came.