by Snow, Nicole
“He couldn’t have gotten far,” I growl under my breath, scanning.
I’m not letting him off this easy.
Not letting him escape without facing payback for what he just tried to do.
Stop me from getting to my woman and my son.
There’s got to be a trail. It’s only been minutes. He can’t be far.
But the truck’s skid down the rocky slope into the dry roadside scrub has torn up the grass and the earth, obscuring the trail.
I circle around the truck, stalking, nostrils flared like I can catch his scent.
I’m not quite that much an animal. I’m looking for the one bent blade of grass that could only be left by a human foot, not thousands of tons of crashing steel.
I’m so preoccupied I don’t hear the spark.
The hiss.
The crackle.
Not till Gray shouts “Leo!” and crashes into me, knocking me away from the truck and into the thick stands of trees just past the base of the hill.
The night lights up orange, and the remnants of Gray’s truck go up in flames.
The fire shoots out in a whoosh, gasoline and sparks catching on the grass, sending them up in a blaze. Heat rolls over the night in a choking wave, torching the trees, burning the leaves till they glow like these fucked up skeletons.
For a second, I’m back in that night eight years ago.
The fire everywhere.
The screams.
Then the sight of a silhouette darting across the flames slaps me back to reality. I fumble away from Gray to go charging into the wall of fire.
I’m not letting this bastard escape.
Ross is busy throwing himself into a crop of trees that hasn’t caught fire yet when I find him. I don’t even hesitate, just tackle him to the ground.
He’s still bound. He’d managed to get his legs free and his gag out somehow, but his arms are still tied behind his back, and there’s nothing he can do to stop me as I crush down with the full force of my weight.
He cries out in pain, a sound that satisfies my dark side far more than it should.
But before he can open his mouth to make another peep, I slam my fist into his face.
He won’t get another chance to fuck with me and mine.
Time to end this.
Standing, surrounded by the trembling flames, I look up, watching Gray stagger through the field of leaping orange and gold.
The determination in his eyes reflects the rage pooling in my gut.
Hard-focused. Ready for anything. We don’t have much time.
Not when, even if Nash doesn’t set off the explosives, this blaze could consume the entire countryside, and with the phones jammed, we can’t even call it in.
We’ve got to get moving now.
Bending, I catch Ross by his collar, scuffing him up like the mangy animal he is.
“Come on,” I say, turning to trudge toward the hill, dragging Ross away from the flames. “Let’s go finish this shit.”
23
Through the Woods (Clarissa)
It’s like something out of a slasher flick.
A lone woman on Halloween night, creeping through the dark woods with her palms sweating, her breaths racing, everything turned freaky orange by the distant lights of the town through the trees. Somehow it just makes the darkness around her that much thicker, colder, scarier.
Only her phone lights the way.
And every small step sounds like a terrible crash, the crunch of leaves and twigs echoing through the night.
But nothing’s louder than the thump of my heart.
It’s like a gong ringing inside me as I make my way through the woods, looking for that storm door set deep in the earth.
I’ve been gone for years, but I still know these woods like the back of my hand.
This is my home.
The one thing it never stopped being.
And right now, I cherish the thought that when this is over, maybe I could make Heart’s Edge home again.
If I can just find my sister.
If I can just talk to Leo about the quiet, beautiful thing building between us.
That’s what’s holding me together as I edge through the darkness.
No, I’m not a horror movie heroine.
I’m not going to die in a splash of blood, taken off guard by the killer because I made one stupid move and didn’t run when I should have.
I’m the girl who lives.
I’m the girl who survives and saves the people she loves.
That gives me a steel backbone as I step out into the clearing and finally see it. The door almost seems buried under so much autumn-shriveled ivy that it looks like it hasn’t been opened in years.
I hesitate, wondering if I’m wrong.
Maybe she’s not down there, and I’m just chasing dead ends.
But I have to know.
I can’t walk away without trying.
Taking a deep breath, scrubbing my free hand against my thigh, I step forward.
The chilly night slices at my throat with every nervous breath. My phone’s beam of light passes over the door, illuminating the leaves, the weathered wood. I brush away the vines, clearing off the heavy coverage, ignoring the skittering bugs coming out of their hiding places.
In seconds, I’ve ripped away enough to expose the crossbeam barring the door.
I stuff my phone into my pocket, plunging me into darkness, but leaving both hands free to shove that heavy wood up.
It fights me. It fights me hard, the wood almost swollen and stuck in place, absorbing moisture and expanding. I grunt under my breath as I shove and drag and strain.
I can’t give up.
I can’t.
Not when something—some intuition—tells me everything I’ve been desperately looking for is on the other side of these doors.
So I give it my all.
And even though my hands scrape against the wood, even though my shoulders protest, there’s finally a shriek of hinges and creaking wood. The crossbar sealing the doors shut breaks free. My grip slips and I go tumbling down against the doors.
Oops.
If there was a serial killer out here, I might as well have just screamed HERE I AM, flapping my arms around like a maniac.
No time to worry about that, though.
I feel around in the dark for the rusty metal handle on the right-hand door, then grab on and give another heave with all my strength.
The door feels like it weighs a ton, but it comes open surprisingly easy. I almost stumble back as it swings wide, before I grip the edge and catch myself. It falls to one side with a clang.
I take a few deep breaths, rubbing my stinging hands together, then fish my phone out again.
The light illuminates a dusty stone stairwell leading down.
I remember this now.
The wet, earthy smell. The dust, the cobwebs. The gleam of dampness down the walls.
It’s all just like Mom showed me years ago.
What’s different are fresh footsteps on the dirty stone steps. They’re left behind in watery prints drying against the surface. Hmmm.
My chest goes tight.
They’re faint. It’s hard to tell if the steps were going in...or coming out.
But someone’s been down here.
In the last hour, maybe less.
Oh, crap.
Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this alone.
I should call Leo. He’s got to be back by now, right?
I fumble with my phone, killing the light and digging up the number for that weird burner phone he uses.
But when I try to call him, lifting the phone to my ear, I don’t even get the sound of the phone dialing. Just an odd static crackle, loud and harsh.
Dead air.
I try it again and again—but the call just won’t connect. It’s less like no signal and more like the whole system’s gone down.
Great timing.
Heart in my throat, I take several h
eaving breaths, staring down at the darkness beckoning me into the tunnel.
I can’t wait any longer. Every minute makes a difference in Deanna’s life, especially if that radio broadcast urges Nash into doing something drastic.
Looks like it’s just me, myself, and I.
Biting my lip, I step down onto the stone staircase carefully, sweeping my light in front of me. I should probably turn it off. It might tip off anyone down here that I’m here...but I’d rather have light to show me the way than creep around in the dark with no idea which way’s which.
My boots scuff too loud, even though I try to keep quiet.
Everything seems too loud, ratcheting up my nerves. I creep down the stairs slowly, bracing one hand against the damp wall so I don’t slip on the slimy floor.
The air down here tastes dusty and thick with moss. But weirdly fresher than it should.
Like this tunnel was opened many times.
And I remember, all those years ago, when I was just a little girl, the shadow-men from Galentron.
They’d come into the house, and then disappear somewhere.
I always told myself they just left, but something never seemed quite right.
I never saw them. Deanna and I hid in the lower levels and crawl spaces.
Maybe I never saw them because I never looked deep enough.
This whole place feels claustrophobic. The last faint speck of night deserts me as I reach the bottom of the stairs and move deeper, following it deeper beneath the earth.
That constant trickle of water shadows me, makes me feel less alone down here.
I don’t know if it’s comforting, or terrifying.
I feel like I’ve been walking forever, the ghostly white light of my phone’s flashlight sweeping out in front of me, highlighting cobwebs, less than I’d expect.
Someone’s definitely been down here.
And my breaths pick up as I creep a little farther in.
There’s a light another few hundred yards down the tunnel.
I shut off my phone quickly.
Darkness plunges down around me, but that only makes the small golden square ahead jump out.
So I’m not imagining it.
There’s something down here.
Someone had to have left that light burning.
I stuff my phone back in my pocket and let the light guide me forward, struggling to move quickly and silently, keeping my body low to the ground.
If Nash is there, I can’t let him hear me coming. But if he’s not, I can’t waste time if my sister’s cooped up there alone.
Closing in, I finally make out another door. It’s wood, an old-style cellar door with a square peephole crisscrossed by iron bars.
I slip to one side of the tunnel, hopefully out of sight from inside the room, and creep up a few more inches.
Now I’m flattened on one side of the door, leaning over to peer through the window.
Whatever I expected to see...it’s not this.
The room is massive, larger than anything I could ever imagine under my old house. Against one wall, there’s what looks like old bunk beds, military style, just steel framing and thin mattresses, all dusty and mildewed.
Remnants of old equipment rotting away here and there. Everything from what looks like a dilapidated fridge and stove to a stainless steel table that makes me nervous because it looks like an operating table.
The straps don’t make it any better.
That photo of Leo flashes in my mind. He’s captured and lashed to the table, his mouth open on a roar.
God. I feel sick.
And I don’t have time to take in the rest of it—what looks like worktables, and even a few classroom-style desks, old chairs scattered around, large storage crates filled with who even knows.
Because there’s only one light on in the room.
A portable lantern, one of those bright Colemans that can turn night into day. It’s set up in the center of the floor, illuminating a little campsite. There’s a tent, supplies scattered everywhere, a backpack.
And tied up on a dirty pallet outside the tent, a figure.
Deanna!
I don’t know how I don’t die then and there, when my heart stops beating.
She’s alive.
Bruised, bloody, her hair a ragged mess. It’s chopped down almost to her scalp and sprayed around her face in sad brown wisps, her ankles and thighs tied together, arms bound behind her back, duct tape over her mouth, the wet tracks of fresh tears cutting through the grime on her cheeks.
But she’s alive.
I stop thinking. Stop anything.
“Deanna,” I breathe, wrenching the door open.
It squeals open harshly, dust and debris shedding down. The weight nearly rips my arms from their sockets, but I don’t care. I dive in, scrambling across the floor.
She comes to sharply, tensing, opening her eyes, jerking like she’s afraid she’ll be hit.
I so want to kill Nash for everything he’s done to her.
I can’t believe he’s turned my sister into this small, scared thing, flinching at the idea he might be coming back.
I tumble to my knees next to her, catching her face in my palms, nearly sobbing as I look down into wide, blank green eyes that don’t quite recognize me.
“Deanna?” I whisper. “Deedee, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s Rissa, your sister. I’ve come to get you, baby girl.”
She trembles, frozen in my hold, only for her eyes to clear in a heartbeat and her entire body to relax. Her eyes well bright with tears, and she slumps, making muffled, sobbing sounds against the tape over her mouth.
I can hardly see for the tears blurring my vision as I scrape at the edges of the tape with my nails, catch it, then pull it away, wincing at her cry of pain. Her head falls. I catch it, cradling it in my lap, curling over her.
This hot, hurting, wretched sob just bursts out of me.
I said I wouldn’t cry.
Told myself I wouldn’t cry until I found her, but now she’s here, and I hate that I’ve been so close to her so many times and never freaking knew I was standing right over her, searching and searching and searching but never quite knowing where to look.
“It’s okay,” I whisper again and again, and I don’t know if I’m trying to tell her or trying to tell myself. “It’s okay, Deedee. You’re safe now...”
She weeps against my thighs, deep and hoarse and rasping, mirroring my own sobs.
I’ve got to get her untied.
I’ve got to get her to a hospital.
But for a moment, sheer relief leaves me too weak to do anything but cry.
After several shaky moments, though, I make myself focus.
I pull back, gently stroking my fingers through the dirty, matted spikes of her hair, trying not to break down crying again when the short tufts slip through my hands too fast.
“Give me a second,” I say, reaching behind her, feeling for the knots in the ropes binding her arms and wrists. She’s been hog-tied, practically, and the knots are tight. “Here, let me get started on this.”
But then Deanna goes stiff against me, her breath catching.
Her head lifts, her eyes widening in dread.
She’s not looking at me.
She’s looking past me.
And trembling with fear, she barely whimpers out, “Clarissa!”
A black shadow falls over me. Pain erupts in my skull as a hand snares my hair, wrapping a handful around a cruel fist, peeling me backward.
Away from my sister, even as I stretch a hand out, grasping at her, screaming.
Then a cold, nasty voice purrs against my ear, and my blood turns to ice.
“Well, well,” Nash whispers, his numb voice coiling against my eardrums. “What’ll we do with this lovely head of hair?”
It’s the last thing I hear.
Fear, the last thing I feel, thick and terrible and scalding hot in my veins.
A second later, my head explodes again, and everyt
hing goes completely black.
24
The Right Way Out (Nine)
I thought I knew what chaos was.
Swore I’d lived out every aspect, every damn way anything could be terrible and frightening and consumed by uncertainty.
But it’s all been nothing compared to the moment when Gray and I crest the hill just outside of the highway barrier along the road leading into town. The distant glowing flame at our backs follows us into town, now lit up with what seems like a thousand flashes.
The entire night is painted in red and gold and orange and specks of blue.
It’s too much like that night at the lab, eight damn years ago, when everything was flame.
—fire everywhere, beams dropping, everything crashing down, I’m going to die, I’m going to die, but it doesn’t matter as long as everyone’s safe, as long as she’s safe—
That last hellish incident did one good thing.
Ever since the Paradise Hotel went down, Heart’s Edge has loudspeakers mounted to the outside of the school and several other public places.
Blake’s voice blares out of them now. “Please follow all emergency evacuation routes to the outskirts of town. If you’ve been separated from loved ones, do not attempt to search for them; reconvene at the Charming Inn. Do not return to your homes for your belongings. Proceed on foot, do not create traffic stalls. This is not a drill. Please follow all proper evac procedures.”
It’s almost strange remembering that underneath that goofy Labrador, Blake Silverton is a trained volunteer fire chief, an ex-military man, a radio jock, and a father.
The authority in his voice keeps people moving.
Good thing, too, the streets are a mess of noise and scared townspeople.
Parents clutch their kids and run. Gaggles of teenagers tumble through alleyways, half running, half treating it like some kind of exciting adventure, laughing and shoving at each other.
Langley’s in the street like a glorified crossing guard, directing traffic. I catch hints of shouted questions, people wanting to know what’s wrong, why they’re evacuating, what’s the threat, is this a joke?