There was a girl in the water beside him.
She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows, then held a long finger across her lips. She looked sketched by a Dutch master, she was so flawless, so full of glow. And also, she looked familiar, very much so, but he couldn’t place her.
He was trembling with the cold of the water. She reached a hand like a sparrow to his shoulder, and warmth came from it, soothing him and bringing him a startling sense of protection.
She raised a finger beside her ear and shook her head. Don’t listen, the gesture said. Then she held her hand out before her, palm toward him. The message was clear, don’t listen and don’t move a muscle.
But how could he not listen to that hideous wailing in the sky? It was the most terrifying sound he’d ever heard. And the mechanical chuckling of what appeared to be gigantic spiders gnashing their mouth parts—it caused sickening dread, visceral terror as it conjured thoughts of agonizing mutilation.
She frowned at him. What was she getting at, and who was she? So familiar, the face.
She smiled softly, and he thought that certain female looks define the very essence of beauty for the male, and she reached out as if she had heard that thought, and touched his cheek so very kindly, and his mind went to Lindy, and his heart almost broke in half.
This all happened in an instant, during which time she touched her temple and nodded and smiled, and that gesture, one he had seen her make before, caused him to realize who she was. This was Louise Wright’s daughter Pammy, manager of the Target…and he thought she could read his mind.
He noticed, also, that as he had become distracted by her, the things in the water seemed to have lost track of him.
There was a crackle, a huge noise. Electronic crackle.
Pammy Wright frowned.
A voice echoed, electronically amplified. “Martin Winters, I am Captain Jennifer Mazle of the United States Air Force. Please come up on the dock.”
Pammy shook her head. Then she pointed downward, and disappeared.
“Doctor Winters, I am Captain Jennifer Mazle of the United States Air Force. The situation has been stabilized and it’s safe to come out. Please come up on the dock.”
He saw Pammy’s pale body disappearing down among the water weeds. She swam right through a line of black shapes, which simply hung there, not moving.
He followed her, going deep, swimming as hard as he could, struggling and, he was sure, drawing attention to himself. He swam toward the creatures, which all spread their legs and began closing in on him. He dropped down into the water weeds, into the dark and the pressure among their roots, glimpsing a great fish, then Pammy again, far ahead, deeper yet in the lake.
How could she do it? How could she possibly manage? Waves of frantic air hunger were already coursing through his body and he was going to have to surface, he had no choice, it was essential to life, he could not manage another second—
—and then she was there, coming up from below, and she had with her a blue cylinder. She offered him a rubber tube and turned it on when it was in his mouth. As he gulped oxygen, tingling, exquisite relief filled his lungs, his blood, his crashing heart.
She flitted away as a great, rough something whipped his back. He didn’t turn to look, he just followed her. He couldn’t suppress his fear now, not when he was swimming for his life.
But what had that voice been? Was the Air Force really out there? Maybe he would’ve been safe if only—
Pammy stopped, turned, and yelled in bubbles: NO!
He went deeper, following the disappearing form. The water was dark here, the pressure was making his ears ring, and his lungs were bursting again.
Somebody else was beside him, a young man as naked as Pammy had been, swimming hard, his eyes behind goggles also. He had the oxygen, which Martin took in huge gulps.
He was being rescued by the town kids who had disappeared, and Oh, God, maybe that meant Trev.
He swam hard, and soon found himself in a narrowing, dark space, a tunnel. Where he was he didn’t know, but they were ahead of him and he swam for all he was worth.
Then something like steel springs grabbed both of his legs, and he began to be dragged back out of the tunnel, and he knew that it was one of the things and he kicked and kicked but the harder he tried, the tighter its grip became. Also, air was getting short again and he was in too confined a space, nobody could reach him here. As he began to be dragged back, he clawed at the walls, he kicked with every ounce of his strength, but still the grip on him tightened and he knew that he had lost this struggle.
He began to be pulled backward out of the tunnel. Going faster by the second, he could soon see again. As he was pulled back into the body of the lake, light grew around him.
The walls of the tunnel were stone, he could see them now, and he had a last chance, here. He understood spaces like this, tunnels, tombs, and such. With all the strength that was in him, he thrust out his arms and the leg that wasn’t in the grip of the thing that was dragging him. As the thing met sudden and unexpected resistance, he felt a flash of pain in the ankle it had been gripping. Immediately, he kicked. Kicked again. Kicked a third time, and felt himself come free, then kicked harder as the legs or grippers or whatever they were scrabbled around his feet.
He pulled himself back into the blackness and narrowness of the tunnel, until he could barely move and had to breathe and knew that it would be water.
And he did breathe and it was water, it came sluicing down his throat and gagged him, causing him to cough and involuntarily draw in more.
It hurt to drown, it was not magic, he saw nothing of his life before his eyes as he died, only agony, only a frantic need that could not be fulfilled and then dark.
Dark. Dark.
Air, sweet in him, filling him, air but maybe only the air of wishes, the air of dreams.
“Come ON!”
“CPR him, hurry!”
Pressure on his back, a cough, water coming out, flowing out, then another breath, deep and good and he was fully conscious again, wet, aware of how miserably cold he was.
Dappled autumn woods, larks singing in the last, high light, Little Moon racing in the clouds, beloved star wanderer. And her—Pammy—standing over him and the young man, the boy—also familiar but no name, not yet.
They dragged him to his feet. “Hurry!”
High overhead, a long, chilling wail shattered the noise of the larks.
“Don’t listen!”
“Why not?”
“They home in on fear. If you’re not afraid, they can’t find you. Come on.” As she spoke, the young man sprinted away.
She tugged at his arm. “We’ve gotta go. They’re realizing they made a mistake.” She smiled shyly, her cheeks and neck turning pink. “Somebody just said, ‘Who’s back at the lake?’ and now they’re all looking at each other.” She lowered her eyes.
“You understand their language?”
She hauled at his hands, then slipped away as easily as if she had been born to the forest, her pale face glowing in a dark that was being brought by clouds that were speeding out of the north like hungry panthers, flashing and bellowing.
She had already disappeared, and he ran to follow her—and was stopped by a devastating blow from behind. And then he saw the ground, felt cold leaves in his face.
“I want you to be calm.” It was the Air Force officer, Jennifer Mazle.
He cried out in the direction the girl had gone. “Help! Help me!”
“I’m a scientist, too, Doctor Winters, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Then let me up.”
The weight lifted, and Martin pulled out from under her. She wore a camouflage vest, a rumpled hat, and heavy glasses with a split lens. Her eyes were big with sadness. “This mission isn’t going right,” she said. “I need you to come back and help us.”
“What are those things? My God—”
“You need to help us understand, Doctor Martin.”
“They
were trying to kill me. The government was, too.”
She touched his hand, then gripped it. “There’s a lot of fear out there.”
He glimpsed movement behind her. She started to turn, but was struck, and hard, by a piece of wood. She turned quickly back.
Her face was distorted, the skin on the cheek where she’d been hit imprinted by the wood.
She moved to one side, her skin rippling, turning cream-colored, red where the board had hit.
What in the world was wrong with her?
She snarled, came quickly toward him. Seen full on like this, her face was—oh, holy Christ, it was—the skin was ripping like a crazy jello, the eyes were weird in the eerie cloud light, weird and gold.
He turned and ran. He didn’t think, he was beyond that. He just ran because what he had seen was so terrible that his mind had been completely stripped away, replaced by a terror so raw and so deep that this educated, civilized man was thrown back in an instant to the days when men were hunted things.
A thunder of slashing jaws rose up all around him, as overhead the wails came again and again, exultant now, joyous now, the sky, the very air vibrant with their triumph.
His fear was the beacon, but he couldn’t help it, she’d turned into a monster when that kid had hit her, and that had been the single most shocking thing Martin had ever seen, more shocking even than the explosion of the pyramid, which involved an inanimate thing, not the face of a living creature like that.
And then Pammy was there, looking down at him from a ledge. She motioned to him and he clambered up beside her.
She lay flat and he did the same.
“Blank your mind,” she said calmly. “Concentrate your attention on your body. Don’t think.”
Lying on the sun-warmed stone, he concentrated on his aching lungs, his crashing heart. Below them, he heard movement, then quiet voices. Above, the wailing came and went as the great birds began to patrol.
“Come on,” she whispered, “fast!”
The instant she spoke, there was a rustling sound, and a black-gloved hand gripped the ledge from below. He turned and ran, following her, putting all the strength he had left into his effort.
The trees shuddered and the thunder echoed, and great gusts of wind swam down from the north. Martin ran behind the fleeing girl, deeper and deeper into the woods, and rain came in sheets, a yellow deluge. Behind him he heard the cries of the strange birds and the crackle of alien voices.
“Come on,” Pammy urged.
He could remember this part of the woods. They were past the Saunders and about a mile down from his house. This was state land, part of the Prairie Heritage program. The forest here was as thick as it got in Kansas, and when you dropped down into the hollows, dense with brush. The hunting back in here had been excellent when he was a boy. Wild pheasant, plenty of turkey.
Times gone by. He’d discovered here that Trevor was not going to be a hunter, that he felt too bad for the animals. He and Lindy had come back in here when they were first married, and walked naked here, hand in hand, in some sort of sacred contact with the land that they could not articulate.
It was miserable here now, though, soaking, the rain pounding down, wind roaring. A storm like this could easily bring a tornado, too.
Then she seemed to drop down, as if into a hole. When he followed her, he discovered a tiny glade, and in it a camouflaged tent. He recognized it. They’d been on sale at Hiram’s Sporting Goods. She darted in. He approached more warily. Close to it, he could hear drums in the sound of the rain. Then the flap opened and she gestured frantically. He went in.
The first thing he noticed was that the drumming was much louder, the second that the air was stifling. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the space was filled with children and young people, perhaps twenty in all. He knew at once that these were the kids who had disappeared when their parents and siblings had become wanderers.
He looked from face to face, seeking recognition, not willing to taste again of his hope.
When he did not see Trevor, he swayed, staring, helpless to either stand or sit. He had reached the end of his tether, he was going to collapse.
Unable to defend himself from his own tears, he dropped to his knees and covered his face, and fought to keep his tears silent.
A hand came onto his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.” And the tears became a helpless, humiliating flood.
“Dad?”
He’d heard the word, but—
“Dad?”
He raised his face and saw standing before him somebody he did not recognize.
“Dad, I’m Trevor.”
Then he did—behind the dirt, behind the dark cast of his eyes, behind the wild hair and the muddy camouflage suit, he knew that it was his son.
Trevor had changed fantastically. He was not a boy, not at all. His expression contained an adult’s knowledge of the world—that and more—and the change had been so abrupt and so total that in just these few days he had become unrecognizable to his own father.
The heart, though, the heart sees, and Martin’s heart saw his son before him. He opened his arms and Trevor came to him, and he closed them around his son’s narrow body. His heart and mind may have grown, but this was still the same boy, fragile, almost, but with the long legs and big shoulders that said that he would soon grow much taller.
“Trevor,” he managed to rasp. “Trevor.”
Trevor pushed gently at him but he clung more tightly. He could never let him go, not ever, he could not do that again. “Dad—um—” He managed to look up into his father’s eyes. “Dad, nobody else here has any parents left.”
For a moment, Martin didn’t understand. Then he did. He was the only parent who was not wandering. He looked out across the expectant faces, the eyes that he was realizing all had the same strange shadow in them, some of them touched now by tears, others wide with sorrow, others resigned.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’m George,” one of the older boys replied. “Glad to meet you.” George held out his hand, shook formally. Others followed, most of them teens, some as young as ten. There were twenty-two of them, two more boys than girls. Each in turn introduced himself. It was so formal. Oddly formal. But there was no precedent for such a meeting, was there?
Through all of this, the drumming did not stop.
Trevor glanced away from him, then murmured, “It drowns out the sound of the night riders, so the little ones won’t get scared.”
Just hearing his son’s voice, Martin felt another wave of joy.
“Dad!”
“He can’t help it,” a little girl said.
“Can you hear me thinking, kids? Is that it?”
“We sort of pick up thoughts, but it’s not like you’d imagine, Dad. People don’t think alike and thought patterns are even more different than faces. You can’t figure out what somebody else is thinking unless they know how to organize their thoughts to communicate, and we’re still learning. But they can all feel your feelings, and you’re…it’s embarrassing me, Dad.”
“I can read thought,” George said. “I’m getting kind of okay.” He looked quickly at Martin. “Not you, sir! I’d never do that.”
“I better not catch you in my mind,” a girl warned him.
“Oh, I’m not, Sylvie! I’m not!”
“Of course you are. Anyway, we have no trouble reading you morons, any girl can do it, you don’t need to have gotten zapped. You’re transparent from birth, gentlemen.” She leaned her head against George’s shoulder. George crossed his legs.
“What’s this getting zapped?” Martin asked.
Silence fell. “Dad, we want you to try.”
“Try what?”
“Don’t ask him, Trev, he has to!”
“Shut up!”
“What’s going on here?”
“Dad, you remember the night when it happened?”
“How could I ever forget it?”
> “Mom was holding Winnie and I was standing beside them. You had your hand on my shoulder, you were squeezing so hard you nearly broke it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no, it was good. The light missed you. It hit Mom and sort of splashed on me. I went out of my body and up in the air. I saw you down there, I saw us all. Then I was out in the sky, up above the church. I saw Mom and Winnie, they were gold in the light—gold masses of sparks—and they were rising fast. But my shoulder hurt so much, I went back down.
“At first, I was in shock. I went to the back of the church with Mom. I saw you but you seemed far away. You were hollering at us. You—I never saw you like that, Dad. I felt so sorry for you. So sorry!”
“I want your mom back. I want my girl.”
Another boy shook his shoulder. “We’re gonna win, Doctor Winters.”
Martin recognized him as Joey Fielding, son of George and Moira, who ran Octagon Feed. “That doesn’t seem possible,” he replied, trying to keep his bitterness and his resignation out of his voice.
“Every one of us had the same thing happen. We were in pain when the light hit us, and it didn’t take all the layers. Who we were stayed with our bodies. What we lost were the lies, the hopes, most of our education, what we wanted, what we thought of ourselves, our hopes. We lost all the baggage.”
One of the little ones said, “We’re like, fresh. We’re new again, like we were—”
“Look at him, you’re scaring him,” a girl hissed.
“I’m not scared,” Martin said.
“Yes, you are. We’re weird and you’re scared!”
“He doesn’t scare easy,” Trevor snapped. “My dad has courage.”
“He’s gonna need it if we do this.”
Martin was aware that this conversation was happening on two levels, one he could hear and another that he couldn’t. “I think I need to know what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is we need you to try to become like us.”
How would he do that? It seemed like some sort of side effect of a failed attempt by the aliens to strip away a soul.
“That’s it,” Trevor said.
“I thought you couldn’t read minds.”
2012 The War for Souls Page 18