Stake

by Kevin J. Anderson

  ‘Doctor Lee?’ His voice came out in a croak that sounded loud amid the quiet ticking of the wreck. ‘Doctor?’

  The seat in front of him had been torn aside. The roof of the ambulance had caved in. As Grundy fought to free himself from the seatbelt, he saw the doctor’s shoulder in front of him. There was so much blood.

  When he finally disengaged the seatbelt and dropped free, wincing, he reached forward to shake Dr Lee’s shoulder. The neck ended only in a bloody stump. The doctor’s head lay on the seat staring at him, eyes open, lips parted as if about to make an insightful comment about his decapitated state.

  Pinned by the steering wheel on the other side, the German driver slumped back, a red wet bullet hole in the middle of his face, a larger exit wound out the back of his skull. Grundy had seen countless wounds like this when he tended the injured among the Bosnian villages.

  The confined air in the ambulance stank of blood. His cracked ribs made it impossible to draw a deep breath. He found himself hyperventilating.

  Then he heard the wolves howling. Under the full moon, the sound was primal and terrifying, one long mournful howl joined by another and another.

  He turned to look at Dr Lee’s head resting on the front seat. The dead man’s expression seemed to have changed, his mouth open in a mocking leer. The lifeless eyes inexplicably shifted toward him. With a shudder, Grundy told himself it wasn’t real, just a trick of the moonlight. He was letting his imagination get away with him, and he was aware enough to realize he was in shock.

  His shirt was soaked with sticky blood, like an entire bucket poured across his chest and shoulders, enough that he would have died if it were his own. It must have come from the doctor.

  Were the wolves closer now? He didn’t know that wild wolves existed in Bosnia, but the army had left out a lot of details. Grundy had to get out of the ambulance. Drawn by the scent of blood, the animals would come here to feed.

  Suddenly, the German driver let out a gurgling, inhuman sound, a hungry moan. His body twitched, but he was trapped in place by the broken steering wheel. Grundy screamed. The driver turned the bloody crater of his face toward him, one eye bulging like an overripe fruit. The wet mucus sound bubbling up from the undead man’s throat grew louder.

  Grundy thrashed, desperate for a way out, not caring how much more he cut or bruised himself.

  The nearest side window had been shattered, and he had to squeeze through it. He had to! As his panic rose, he wrenched his leg free, still hearing the stir of the mangled driver. He thrust his head through the window opening and clawed the rocky ground outside, pulling himself out. Sharp edges of glass bits sliced his shirt, his skin.

  Once free of the wreck and the bloody horrors inside, he could hear the wolves drawing closer. Grundy dragged himself away, leaving his two dead companions behind. His father would have excoriated him for the very idea of abandoning his comrades, but he needed to get out of there.

  After he managed to get to his feet, Grundy began to run, following the line of least resistance, just going as far as he could. Finally, with enough distance that he could risk catching his breath, he slowed and felt his body for major injuries, but all he found were bruises. He spat blood from his mouth. He could have ransacked the ambulance for medical supplies, but he didn’t dare go back there, not after what he had seen.

  The terrifying howls echoed through the mountain wilderness, the thick beech forest, and he ran faster.

  Desperate to get to safety, to civilization, he turned in one direction and another, searching for any sort of twinkling light, home windows or headlights on the forest roads. But every direction was dark, with only the eerie moon for company.

  Grundy limped onward, ignoring the pain. When he treated people in the isolated villages, he had heard them whisper, knew that this old land was soaked with superstitions and lore. Considering how strongly they believed, and in his current emotional state, he thought there might really be monsters abroad in the night.

  He had no idea where to find help. He didn’t speak the language and didn’t look like any of the local clans, but he was certain he had frequently seen something in the peasants’ haunted eyes, a shared secret and a common fear. He understood that they knew something terrifying about their own country …

  ‘Cigarette?’

  The voice jarred Helsing out of his memory and back to the present. He turned to see a man with a ragged beard, brown hair below his ears, and a faded Texas A&M cap.

  ‘What? I’m sorry.’

  ‘Cigarette?’ the man asked, pressing closer. Other people from the soup kitchen milled around.

  ‘No, I don’t have any.’

  The man sounded exasperated. ‘Buddy, I’m offering you one. Just trying to be friendly.’

  Helsing looked at his half-finished bowl of pea soup. ‘No thanks. I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Bad habit anyway.’

  The man walked off.

  Helsing thought he recognized the man as a member of the Bastion, but he wasn’t sure. These days he saw too many things, made too many connections, and not all of them were real.

  Part of David Grundy had died that day in Bosnia, but he had awakened to the true dangers that lurked in the modern world, insidious monsters that disguised themselves as normal people and kept their existence very quiet.

  For now, he was alone in his crusade, but someday there would be others to fight the great enemy. He would find an ally out there. Somewhere.

  NINE

  On bargain day at the second-hand store, Lucius decided to stock up on supplies, not just for the emergency caches and safe houses in the city, but also for the main camp. Members of the Bastion had to be self-sufficient in these dire times, and he needed to make sure that anyone who risked visiting the city had access to the necessary emergency supplies.

  He’d already made several purchases at Goodwill, but this veterans’ charity store had better prices. Lucius gathered a stack of shirts in various sizes, mostly men’s but some for the children, too. Joshua was growing like a weed. A couple of women’s outfits rounded out the purchase, particularly warm winter wear. He took special pride in finding a fleece jacket for Mama. She deserved it.

  He paid in cash, carefully counting out the bills and taking every penny in change. The clerk thought nothing of it.

  Carrying his bags, Lucius went to the rundown Volvo in the parking lot. The car’s body had seen better days, but its engine worked like a charm. The back seat was already filled with bags of groceries, canned goods on sale from the dollar store. His people collected fresh berries and wild vegetables from the forest, but he bought a sack of clementines that they would consider a treat.

  The Volvo started right up, and he drove to the Rambler Star Motel listening to the news, verifying that civilization continued to careen toward self-destruction in one form or another, but it was important for him to keep up with world events for the defense of the Bastion. The apocalyptic dangers made Lucius uneasy, but he had more immediate concerns as well. Recent reports on the local news about ‘Bigfoot’ assaulting a female hiker had rocked the Bastion.

  Lucius was a large-statured man with caramel-colored skin, a thick head of blue-black hair and eyebrows to match. He had trimmed his thick black beard for this visit to the city, but he would grow it full and shaggy as winter set in. Before leaving the forest, he changed into a sturdy pair of blue jeans and a khaki jacket over his buffalo-plaid shirt. Despite his broad shoulders and big hands, he kept his voice soft and knew to look clean and civilized so that he drew no attention. When he went about his business, he didn’t want anyone to feel threatened. Or to notice him.

  Reaching the motel, he sauntered into the empty lobby, and Daniel Gardon quickly sat up behind his desk. ‘Lucius!’

  ‘I’ll be in and out quick. Just need to restock the room.’

  He reached for the key to room 41. ‘If you need any supplies in particular, let me know. I can always buy them myself. I take care of the ro
om when no one’s using it.’

  ‘You do enough for us already, Daniel. Your job is to keep the computer and internet available. That isn’t something I know how to do.’

  ‘Not a problem. How … how is everyone?’

  Lucius paused and looked at the man. ‘Surviving. And we intend to keep it that way. You know where to go if things get bad.’

  On the television set, loud celebratory bells chimed and a giddy contestant jumped up and down, having correctly named the price of some kitchen appliance. Lucius felt sad and tired. ‘Are you sure it was worth giving up everything for this?’

  The motel manager looked guilty. ‘Not always. I had concerns when I left the Bastion, but I’m still loyal. You can count on me when you need to.’ Gardon handed him the key on its plastic fob. ‘Still, each night when I go home to my wife and help her cook dinner, or when we go out to a movie or to a restaurant, I get convinced all over again. No regrets.’

  ‘Suit yourself. It is what it is.’

  Lucius knew the man had his doubts. While he and the rest of the Bastion saw the end of the world coming at them from all directions, the motel manager questioned what he called their alarmism. He said he couldn’t buy into all of their doomsday scenarios and he wanted to try out a normal life. He had never rejoined the isolated camp, but even though he was skeptical, Gardon’s heart remained with the Bastion, of that Lucius had no doubt.

  Having a trusted man at the Rambler Star Motel gave them certain advantages. Two other local motels also offered safe havens, in case of emergency. All in all, Lucius preferred the peace and security of the wilderness.

  When he entered room 41, he could see that one or two people had used the resources since his last visit. He restocked the canned goods, added warm socks to the drawer. The motel manager had laundered any dirty clothes left by the previous occupants, folded them and put them away. Lucius checked the cash stash and added another hundred dollars. After he finished, the room looked safe and complete.

  Lucius returned the key to the motel manager and drove off with a full load of food, supplies, and clothing in the back of the Volvo. He would head west into the foothills and wind his way through the forest roads. There were eight other nondescript cars parked in strategic places around the city – off on side streets, in parking lots or in front of auto repair yards where no one would notice them. Members of the Bastion knew how to find them. Each car had a scratched letter ‘C’ under the rear passenger door handle.

  As Lucius drove away, he headed toward the hunched buttress of Cheyenne Mountain with its array of communication antennas on top and its underground NORAD complex from the Cold War days. The government had known how to hide people back then, too.

  But nuclear war wasn’t the only thing that Lucius and his people worried about.

  He felt a weight leave him as he drove through the upscale Broadmoor district, heading into the Front Range. The Pike National Forest was a pristine wilderness above Colorado Springs laced with a maze of numbered Forest Service roads, old logging tracks, private roads, and vast acreage marked with faint and forgotten hiking trails. Only the Bastion knew all its secrets. With good tires and all-wheel drive, the Volvo traveled a dirt road rutted by recreational off-highway vehicles.

  Lucius drove past private lanes leading to empty vacation cabins or loners who lived off the grid. Chain barricades and No Trespassing signs kept the curious away. He passed the graffiti-marked ruins of long-abandoned army bunkers, nothing more than concrete walls, remnants of a military presence that had withdrawn shortly after World War II.

  At a rough drive blocked by a chain and a Private Property sign, Lucius stopped the car, climbed out to remove the chain, then rolled the car through before hooking the chain again. He drove farther, passing several blind tracks and diversionary turns that went nowhere. The Bastion knew how to keep their presence hidden.

  He parked the car and waited in wary silence, gripping the steering wheel until figures stirred out of the trees. They came to greet him, even children. Recognizing Lucius was alone, they bounded closer, smiling.

  He felt like Santa Claus bearing gifts. Men and women helped take the groceries, eager to make a fine feast while the perishables were fresh. They would place the canned goods in stockpiles for winter. Right now, teams were hunting deer, rabbits, and squirrels, which they would preserve. He tossed a bag of hard candy to the children, who snatched it and ran off with their treasure.

  A sturdy woman with a heartbreakingly beautiful face approached with a smile. She tugged a gray-streaked brown lock out of her eyes. ‘I’m happy you’re home, Lucius.’

  ‘There’s nothing like home, Mama.’ With a dramatic flourish, he presented the fleece jacket. ‘You never had a wedding dress, but this may serve you better.’

  ‘Beautiful and practical.’ Taking it from him, she stroked the fabric. ‘I thought it was your job to keep me warm over the winter?’

  ‘It is, but that’s for when I’m not next to you.’

  He picked up the last bag of groceries and closed the Volvo’s back door with his hip. He wished they didn’t have to rely on civilization, but it was the best solution for now in order to survive. Lucius would make sure they did what was necessary.

  He followed his people into camp.

  TEN

  The invitation surprised Lexi. The fancy, elaborate envelope stood out prominently in the mailbox among the grocery flyers, charity solicitations, and the utility bills. Stepping back inside, she tossed the junk mail in the conveniently placed recycling bin and looked at the embossed envelope, the fine crimson paper, the return address.

  Hugo Zelm.

  As he emerged from his room, Blair picked up a lightweight khaki jacket from the wall hook, ready for his day job at Rags to Riches. ‘Looks like a sophisticated invitation. Who’s getting married?’ He stepped closer.

  She pulled out the engraved folded card inside. ‘Not a wedding. A charity benefit gala in the Broadmoor Hills.’ She inspected the invitation, front and back. ‘Hugo Zelm personally invites me to join him. I didn’t know he even had my address.’ The thought momentarily disturbed her, but then Zelm was a man of substantial resources.

  The dark blue ink of the handwritten note stood out against the red paper: ‘I would very much like to meet you in person, Ms Tarada. You make me want to believe.’

  Blair peered over her shoulder. ‘Well, then, he is one of your biggest supporters. You have to go.’

  Zelm was eccentric, reclusive, and generous. His patronage of HideTruth made an enormous difference to her, even if it was no more than a blip in his petty-cash fund.

  ‘He must make hundreds of donations, but maybe he does pay attention to HideTruth.’

  Blair skimmed the invitation. ‘You’ll definitely need a plus one, Lex. Don’t forget your favorite wingman.’

  She didn’t have to think about it. ‘How could I? No one else even comes close to being my first choice.’

  After Blair left for work, seemingly more excited about the invitation than she was, Lexi spent the afternoon researching another eye-rolling conspiracy theory for PRUUF – a mind-altering chemical contamination in a freak snowfall across northern Georgia. Apparently, the clouds were seeded via poisoned vapor trails in a specific attempt by the oil companies to cast doubt on climate-change science so they could avoid environmental regulations.

  She could find no kernel of truth in the story, and most of the evidence was easily debunked. The people who were convinced, however, would not likely change their minds.

  Despite her absolute certainty about what she had witnessed during Teresa’s spectral visit, Lexi had never posted that story, hadn’t told anyone but Blair in years. She wondered if other people would place her conversation with a dead friend in the same category as contaminated vapor trails and freak snowfalls. Nobody believed her – certainly not her parents – and Lexi knew what that felt like.

  You make me want to believe. Hugo Zelm’s comment resonated with her. Lexi wante
d to believe as well, but she also didn’t want to be fooled.

  She leaned back in her desk chair, staring at the screen. At least debunking urban legends and eradicating fake accounts paid the bills. Was that what Teresa had meant with her insistent message from beyond the grave, urging Lexi to make something of her life, to find something she was passionate about? She supposed it was better than flipping burgers somewhere.

  One of these days, Lexi would stumble across that incontrovertible piece of evidence, an incident compelling enough to make others want to believe. Then all of her work would be justified.

  When her phone rang, she answered automatically, assuming it was some business call, but when she saw the caller ID – her parents – she braced herself for a longer conversation. ‘Hi Mom and Dad.’

  She listened to a brief, startled pause. ‘How do you always know it’s us before we even say anything?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Caller ID. Every phone has it.’

  ‘Ours doesn’t,’ her father said.

  ‘That’s because your phone is from the 1980s.’ Hearing the sting in her tone, she quickly added, ‘Love you.’ That was enough to derail the argument.

  ‘We haven’t heard from you in a while, so we decided to call and check up on you,’ her mother said.

  ‘And because we heard about that murder in Colorado Springs,’ her dad added. ‘Are you safe?’

  ‘We have murders in Colorado Springs,’ Lexi said. ‘Half a million people live here, so it’s bound to happen. It’s ten times the size of Dubuque.’

  ‘You’d be safer here,’ her mother said.

  ‘Yes, I’d be safer … and probably bored.’ Lexi fingered the delicate gold cross necklace they had given her for a graduation present. She wondered when they would ever stop trying to get her to move back home. Certainly not today.