From Darkness Comes: The Horror Box Set (55 page)

The knife.

If only he could remember what the man had done with his knife after taking it from him.

His attacker
's grip was slackening. Joshua scarcely dared believe it. Now, though drawing breath was still hard and burned his throat, it was progress, the first step toward turning the tables on the coyote.

The knife.

The man had stuffed it in his belt. He was almost certain. Joshua let his eyes drift down, imagined he could see the pale handle. He intensified his sobbing. "Please...I'm
so
rry..." and miraculously one of the man's hands moved away from his throat. One remained, but the grip was loosening, merely holding him down and no longer strangling him. Once again, Joshua's eyes found the spot where he imagined,
knew
, the knife to be. There was nothing keeping his hands pinned this time, and gradually, in excruciatingly slow movements, he allowed them to creep toward the man's belt.

"
Sorry
..." he whimpered, fingers like spiders creeping down his own legs toward his attacker's thighs.

Then the man
's arm came back around, and though there was insufficient light to see what the black shape in his hand was, there was no mistaking the sound of a hammer being cocked.

"
I am too," the coyote said.

*

The gunshot echoing about the valley was as good as a declaration of war, and Aaron flinched. In battle he imagined it would have been the signal for troops to start charging, but nothing so dramatic would happen here. Holding his position, he slowly turned his head away from the trunk of the pine tree. In the woods around the clearing, the darkness was thickest and that suited him, but he knew better than to make any sudden movements. The sound of a twig breaking or a sharp breath could be enough to bring about his doom. His eyes strayed to the source of the shot, where he saw a tall shadow, visible only as a darker shade of night against the backdrop of the stars, rising for one brief moment before vanishing down the other side of the mountain.

They got Joshua
, Aaron thought, fire in his chest that made him want to tear strips of bark from the tree with his nails and scream aloud his plans for the Men of the World. But instead he did nothing, and this was well advised, for not thirty feet away stood one of
them
, hunkered down in the tall grass just inside the protective circle of the trees, a gun in his hand, a pair of binoculars held to his eyes. It was torture resisting the urge to run at him like one of the old Indian warriors Momma-In-Bed had liked to tell him about, but he knew well the folly of such a rash move. The coyote would cut him down before he made it clear of the trees. So he waited, as still as the trees, and watched.

Soon the man would move
, and when he did, Aaron would be ready.

Pete stared out at the night, afraid to look at Claire for too long in case she snapped at him as she had already done more than once during the long drive. The journey had taken them nine hours, but it felt like an eternity, each one of those miles chipping away another part of the illusion he had held in his head for so long about the girl he thought he loved. He was at a loss to understand what had happened to her. Had she been like this since the hospital, or had she reserved her hostility only for him? If so, he couldn't imagine what he had done to deserve it.

"
Slow down," she told him, and immediately he eased his foot off the gas.

Outside
, there was nothing but endless fields to see, but Pete knew them better than he knew anyplace in the world. He had driven these roads a thousand times, and suspected the reason Claire wanted to stop now was because she recognized it too.

Surreptitiously
, he watched her. She had rolled the window down and was leaning out, her hair blowing crazily around her face. The night breeze was cold around her, and Pete shivered.

She looked back at him.
"Stop," she said and he did.

"
This is where Pa and me found you," he said quietly.

"
Yeah, I know." She opened the door and stepped out. He waited for his cue to follow, but it didn't come. Instead she just stood staring at the barbed wire that separated the field of cotton from the road. At length, she turned. "Do you have a flashlight?"

He nodded slowly. For Claire
, he knew it was a simple request, but the small slim object, no bigger than a pencil, that he slid free of his jeans pocket came with a story she hadn't given him the opportunity to share.

He had driven a shard of glass into the eye of its previous owner
, and couldn't remember taking it before he and Louise had left the apartment, but as soon as he'd sat down on the park bench, he'd felt it digging into his thigh and realized that at some point, despite the circumstances, his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

Afraid Claire might be able to read the story from the lines of guilt on his face the longer he withheld it
, he gave it to her and looked away, studying the road, where his father had made a decision to save a life and end his own.

Maybe it was a mistake
, Pete thought, and was startled by the venom that accompanied it. Then he decided that it was justified. Saving Claire had cost Pa his life and turned Pete's upside-down, and for what? He glanced back at the girl, who was now leaning on the barbed wire, lowering it so she could climb over. He knew he should help, but staying where he was made him feel better. She was not the girl they'd rescued. Not the girl Pa and Doc Wellman, even Louise, had been willing to die for. She was a stranger, and perhaps
he
was the fool at the back of it all. Who was to say this wasn't the real Claire? He hadn't known her before the men tried to kill her and yet he'd invested his hope and his weak heart in her before they'd ever exchanged a word. Why should he be surprised that she was like all the other girls he'd fallen for over the years? He'd first seen her as a battered broken thing and his empathy had quickly become desire. She would wake, he'd believed, and she would need him.

But it was clear now that she needed no one. He suspected if he hadn
't agreed to take her to Elkwood with him, she'd have hurt him and taken the truck herself.

Well
, you got her here
, he told himself.
Nothin' to stop you drivin' away now. She looks well enough to fight if she runs into trouble.

But that wasn
't true, and though he was angry, he made no move toward the keys, just slumped over the wheel, his hands resting atop it, eyes watching the road for lights or any sign that trouble was bearing down on them.

The simple elemental fact of it was that no matter how cold or dismissive she was
, she was all he had left in the world, and he still loved her. Had to. If he gave up on her, the loneliness would crush him.

*

The cotton whispered against Claire
's legs, the thorny twigs on which they seemed merely suspended scratching the material of her jeans as she stood motionless, surveying the field for a glimpse of what she knew was there. When it failed to resolve itself from the dark, she began to walk, the flashlight in hand but not yet switched on. For now, she preferred to rely on her memories of this place to lead her. The ground was uneven beneath the cotton, making traversing it treacherous, and the last thing she needed was to fall and twist an ankle, so she carefully made her way along them. A bird rose from the field and took off, flying low. Night creatures scurried away from the unwelcome intrusion of her feet.

At last
, she stopped, out of breath from the exertion, damp with sweat despite the chill. It had been a long time since she had pushed herself, or in truth, tried exercise of any kind, and it proved only how out of shape and unhealthy she was. But that didn't matter. She looked ahead and up, at the spindly branches of a tree so large it blocked out the stars, and turned on the flashlight.

A twisted
, bone white trunk rose before her, its surface gnarled and ancient and rotten in places where industrious insects had attended to it. Some of the roots were above ground, tangled together in a chaotic jumble that seemed to Claire to symbolize confusion and anguish, their inability to find the earth from which they wished to draw nourishment, prevented from doing so by nothing more sinister than their own brethren.

She raised the flashlight
, aimed the beam upward.

Shadows fled. An explosion of limbs radiated out from the tapering trunk
, the branches themselves seemingly heavy enough to force the tree to bend toward her, like a Victorian woman bowing beneath her umbrella, or a jellyfish pushing upward, the weight of the sea forcing its tentacles down and around itself.

Tentatively
, she reached out to touch the trunk, almost expecting to feel an electrical charge or a rush of memory as she did so. But when her fingers brushed the dried wood, she felt nothing. Whatever the tree had represented on the day she had stood bloodied and bruised staring at it, eluded her now.

With a sigh
, she reached into the pocket of her jeans and retrieved a small penknife, then slowly, painfully got down on her knees and dug the point of the blade into the bark. It sounded hollow, as if she were carving into the last layer of its protective skin before the elements and the insects ground it to dust, erasing it from existence forever.

In the trunk
, she etched out:

K.K.

D.F.

S.C.

And underneath:

Then she stood and studied her dead friends' initials, each one filled with shadow thicker than oil as the breeze made the branches tremble, the wood creaking as the tree swayed.

She turned her back on it
, felt as hollow as the tree and wished she could recall why it had meant so much to her. For one fleeting moment it had seemed like the only thing in the world to her, a savior.

I was out of my mind
, she thought.
In shock
.

The breeze grew stronger.

She stopped.

All around her flecks of cotton rose from the field like fireflies
, caught in the beam of her flashlight as it carved a channel in the dark. Her hair fluttered around her face, her senses filled with the smell of earth and smoke, and without knowing why, she smiled as the million specks of cotton rose ever upward like souls released to the Heavens to join the stars. It was over in a moment, and to anyone else, it might have seemed a perfectly ordinary thing, something visible on any day of the week.

But to Claire
, the significance she'd sought from the tree was there in the cotton, and with it, came the answer to the riddle of what she'd thought she'd seen in the field that day.

There is something else
, she thought.
Something afterward. Life ends and something follows
. In all her years, she had never been asked about her faith, nor had her family ever assumed a denomination. If forced, however, they would have claimed agnosticism as the closest representation. But with that lack of faith came a great fear of death. Without proof of an afterlife, they were intimately aware of their mortality and the limitations of it. The passing of her father and what Claire had endured here eleven weeks ago only reinforced that fear.
Nothing follows
, they'd thought.
You die and you turn to dust
.

Standing naked and wounded on the road outside this field
, she had known she was going to die. Not of old age, not of some unforeseen event waiting to claim her in a few decades time, but right there and then, bleed to death from wounds inflicted on her by maniacs. The terror had been as potent as the pain and she had looked to the tree, looked to anything that could, to her shocked mind, be compared to a figure of salvation. And she had seen her mother. The tree had held out its arms, beckoning to her, promising a reprieve from the pain in its maternal embrace, and she had tried, wept as the barbed-wire kept her at bay like the restrictions imposed on her by her own lack of faith.

She began to walk.
There is something afterward
, she repeated in her head.
Katy, Daniel and Stu are somewhere else, at peace
. It was not yet a conviction, and barring proof of some kind beyond what she had seen here tonight, she doubted she would ever fully believe it. But it was a start, a step forward from pessimism. All that remained was for her to find the same succor.

*

"
What the hell did you do?" Stella asked her husband, daubing the cuts around his broken nose with antiseptic that made him feel as if she were applying it with a heated needle.

"
Already told you," McKindrey said. "I weren't catchin' nothin' down at the creek so I headed up to the far side where the river's wider. Tried to climb up that steep edge where those Pike boys got themselves drowned few summer's back, and I fell. Did a real job on my foot."

"
How come you ain't scratched no place else? That place is full of thorn bushes and stickers."

McKindrey shook his head
, irritated. Not only was Stella being a pain in the ass with her questions, but she was also blocking his view of the TV, so he couldn't even have that as a distraction. She had bandaged up his foot so heavily he couldn't fit his boot over it, so instead he'd had her wrap strips of an old shirt around it. It would do for a while and at least he wouldn't have to be stuck in the house listening to her for God knows how long. He took a long draw of whiskey, felt it numb him and fill his nose with fumes that took the edge off the pain. He was mad as hell, but had reined it in for now. Wouldn't do to be trying to explain to Stella why he was filled with murderous rage over his own stupidity.

"
Oh, damn it to hell anyway," Stella said now and backed away from him as if afraid he was going to hit her.

He took another sip of whiskey
, winced and looked at her. "What's the matter?"

"
You got a call while you was out."

"
So?"

"
It were the state police guy from Mason City. Marshall Todd."

"
What did he want?"

"
Said he got a call from the sister of that poor girl got herself in trouble down here few months back."

With great effort
, McKindrey sat up, his bandaged foot resting on an old ottoman. "And?"

"
And she told him the girl's on her way back down here. Should already be here as a matter of fact if she's comin' at all. Asked if you'd keep an eye out, and bring her in if you can. They'll have someone here in the mornin' to help you out. But I can call him and let him know—"

He raised a hand.
"No. I'll take care of it." And thought,
It's gettin' to be a good time to retire from this shit.

"
How you gonna drive with that foot?"

"
Very goddamn carefully," he said.

It seemed grimly ironic to Finch that Beau, after practically interrogating him about his willingness to kill children, had been the one to do it first. He watched his friend reach the foot of the mountain, saw through the night vision binoculars the eerie green shape of him raising a hand in the air and signaling that he was going to proceed toward the house. It was also Finch's cue to head for the tree line and approach from the left side of the valley so they would be coming at the cabin in a pincer movement.

"
Last chance," Beau had said. "If you want to turn back, now's the time to say it."

"
No," Finch told him, without pause for thought.

"
That kid looked to be about twelve."

"
So what?"

"
So are you gonna be able to shoot him if he draws down on you?"

"
Beau, he might be a kid, but he's also a killer. They kill indiscriminately. We're going to do the same."

"
If you're sure."

"
I am, and if you're in this with me, you need to be sure too or you're the one needs to turn back."

"
Don't worry about me."

Up ahead
, the cabin looked abandoned. Oddly, at some point a poor attempt had been made to put a slate roof atop it. Now most of the slates were gone. There was one window in the front, but the dirty yellow curtains were drawn, denying them a peek inside.Feeble light showed through cracks in the wooden door.

Finch was surprised that the shot hadn
't drawn the family out of the cabin, or from wherever they were hiding. He'd fully expected to see dark shadows springing up and screaming, armed with axes or knives as they charged at Beau, intent on taking him down for killing one of their kin.

But there was no sign of anyone
, and now even Beau had disappeared.

Reminding himself that time was not a luxury he could afford to squander
, he kept low and darted to the left, toward the thick crowd of pines, his eyes flitting from one imagined shape to the next, waiting for one of them to break free and come at him. But he made it into the thick of them unchallenged, and paused to catch his breath, the Glock raised in front of him, his body pressed against the trunk of a pine sticky with sap. His breathing sounded like a bellows, and he imagined at any second someone would hear it and come find him. His heart pounded so hard in his chest his whole body vibrated.
Let them come
, he thought. He shut his mouth, drew short breaths through his nose, felt his limbs quiver with adrenaline. He estimated the distance to the cabin was less than a hundred yards from where he stood, but it would take him longer as he would have to approach it slowly, and with as little noise as possible. The darkness in the field had been nothing compared to the cloying, impenetrable blackness in the woods. He told himself that such poor visibility worked both for and against him. On the one hand, he couldn't see a damn thing, but then it was unlikely anyone else could either, and he at least had the NV binoculars so he could watch them from a distance if it came to it. It didn't, however, help at close quarters, and he cursed himself for not instructing Beau to buy night vision goggles. It was an oversight he feared they would pay for. Spotting the child on the mountain had been sheer luck. If he'd stayed down, they'd have missed him, but just as Finch was scanning the peak, he rose, and Beau was off and running.

Too late now
, he thought, and said a silent prayer that the luck that had reduced the number of their enemies by one would hold out for a little while longer.

Counting to three in his head
, he steeled himself.

Stepped out from behind the tree.

And his legs were torn from under him. He went down fast and hard, twigs and pine needles puncturing his skin, the hand holding the gun bruised by something unyielding beneath the leaves, the other pinned beneath him. Struggling to find his breath, he desperately tried to turn, knowing he would not be able to see his attacker, but willing to take the chance that the shot would find its target.

The darkness changed.

Someone hurried away.

Quickly sitting up and scooting back
, Finch leveled the weapon at the unmoving dark, waited a heartbeat, his finger tensing on the trigger...

...And felt a punch in his left shoulder. At first he assumed he
'd been struck by a fist, or someone's boot, but when he raised his free hand to probe the area, he found a long smooth object protruding from just below his collarbone. Raging pain followed and he winced, aware he did not have the time to spend assessing the damage, but unable to stop himself. The smooth aluminum-like shaft ended in hard feathers.
An arrow
. Someone had shot an arrow into him, and despite the pain, his skin prickled, every nerve waiting to protest the invasion of another one into his flesh. Abruptly, he felt surrounded, imagined bows being drawn taut, arrow-points aimed at his throat, his heart, his face, and dove behind the nearest trunk, drawing his knees up and pulling at the arrow. It budged only slightly and the pain that came as a result was enough to force him to trap a scream behind his teeth.

"
Shit
."

He heard footsteps. Whoever had shot him had apparently decided that the time for stealth was over and was now coming back to finish him off.

Finch grabbed the arrow again and yanked on it. His palms were slippery with sweat and slid harmlessly off the shaft, but not without causing him pain. His vision whirled. He closed his eyes. Grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and brought it up, using it to improve his grip as he grabbed the arrow one last time and pulled with all the strength he had in him. With excruciating slowness, it began to slide free. Trembling, he had barely managed to clear the arrow of the wound when the footsteps registered to his right—too close—and he sensed the presence of someone rounding the tree.

Panicked
, slick with blood, Finch dropped the arrow, quickly brought the gun around and loosed off a shot as soon as he detected the presence beside him. The flash from the muzzle blinded him, left the impression of a pale, hollow-eyed face contorted with fury floating before him and then it was gone, the darkness flooding back in, thicker than before. The absence of even a grunt of pain discouraged Finch and he quickly fired again. The bullet whined as it struck the tree opposite. Bark flew.

A low hum in his ear made Finch turn and duck
, but it was not another arrow bound for his skull, only a mosquito drawn by the blood.

Heart palpitating madly
, he frantically searched the night for the shape he'd seen, the malevolent presence that had just a split-second before been right there in front of him. The roaring of his own blood in his ears had deafened him to the man's retreat, if indeed that's what he'd done and was not instead standing on the other side of the same tree Finch was using for protection. He moved, peering around the trunk, his wounded arm hanging uselessly at his side. His left hand felt swollen with blood to the point of bursting. Even as he flexed his fingers and tightened his grip on the Glock, he heard a whistle and ducked back an instant before an arrow sheared through the bark next to his head and impaled the earth by his feet. Finch glanced at it, aware how close he had just come to having his skull ventilated. Then he noticed something. He could see the shaft of the arrow clearly. It was gleaming, reflecting burgeoning silver light. Almost afraid to hope, he raised his head.

Free of the dark clouds
, the moon shone through the thick canopies, limning the branches with silver, and turning the forest floor into a patchwork of light and shadow. Moths rose from the carpet of needles and mounds of deadfall, summoned by the celestial glow. Flies became silver lures calling to larger prey. Finch risked a glance around the tree, ready to withdraw at the sound of another arrow being nocked, and glimpsed a figure ducking behind a trunk not twenty feet away.