Demon Lights

by Michael M. Hughes

  Mantu nodded. “Are you sure? We’ll have to go on foot when the snowmobiles run out of gas.”

  “Yes. We’ll go together. And we’ll make it.”

  Ray squeezed Ellen. “All right. I’ll stay.”

  “How much food do we have?” Ellen asked.

  Mantu frowned. “Not much. We’ll leave you with as much as we can. You’ll have to conserve your energy. Maybe you can shoot something. There are rabbits out here. And caribou.”

  “I’ll make sure the children are fed,” Ellen said. “We’ll make do somehow.” Her face was drawn and severe beneath her bandaged head. She’d lost a lot of weight during her captivity already.

  “Let’s get packed,” Claire said. “No sense in wasting any time.”

  —

  On the fifth day Ellen passed out the final handful of crackers to the children. They were all hungry but ate their crackers slowly, knowing it was the end of their food. Ray had gone out for several hours each day and only managed to bring back a hare, which had left them more hungry than before they’d eaten it. But at least it had been warm, and he’d been greeted as a hero.

  At night they all slept together in the truck for warmth and during the day Ray hunted. Ellen did her best to keep the children occupied, telling stories and playing games, but now they were all despairing and listless.

  On the seventh day Ray kissed Ellen on her forehead and went out into the woods again. Walking was painful, and the cold in his bones never went away. His hunger was like a kick in the guts, a constant gnawing. If he didn’t eat soon, he realized, he wouldn’t have the energy to move. Heavy clouds had moved in and as he ventured deeper into the woods the first flurries began falling. Then the snow turned heavy. He still hadn’t seen any sign of animal life, not even tracks. He wondered if they could eat the bark on the trees, or the fir needles. Maybe Ellen would know. The cold was fuzzing his brain.

  He lost track of time, and when he paused to sit on a fallen tree he realized he was lost. The snow was coming down so heavily it had very likely obliterated his earliest footsteps. He’d have to hurry back. And again, he was returning with nothing for them to eat. He stood and a wave of dizziness forced him to sit down again. Maybe in a few minutes. He could just rest for a bit until he got his energy back.

  He laid his rifle in the snow. Just a few minutes of rest. He closed his eyes and felt the weariness in his legs easing. He leaned against the stump of the fallen tree, tucking the hand with his broken finger under his armpit. That was better. After all he couldn’t just keep walking without taking a break. He opened his eyes but it was too bright, so he closed them again. Much better. And despite the wind, it was actually getting warmer. Five minutes, that’s all he needed. Snowflakes fell against his face but he didn’t mind. Just a short break and he’d head back.

  He awoke to the sound of footsteps in the snow. He blinked flakes from his eyes. How long had he been sleeping? The sun was low in the sky and his entire body had gone numb. He scrambled for his rifle, trying to focus his eyes. His hands found nothing.

  “Well, look who it is.” A man’s voice. A voice he had heard before. The man’s face was shadowed beneath a furry hood. “Sorry to wake you, old man.” He raised a rifle and held it inches from Ray’s face.

  “Matt,” Ray said, his voice hoarse.

  The young man pulled back his hood. “Ain’t this a surprise.” His eyes lit up. “I had a feeling it might be you.”

  Ray felt blood returning to his numb limbs, and with it came a heavy, throbbing pain. But he couldn’t feel his fingers at all. “How did you find me?”

  Matt snickered. “There’s only one road.”

  “She’s gone,” Ray said. “It’s all over.”

  Matt shook his head. “It sure is, man. You did a hell of a job. I can’t believe your Indian friend had it in him. Thought for sure that fucker was dead.” He looked Ray up and down. “Looks like you were freezing to death, Pops.”

  “What do you want?” Ray asked.

  Matt squinted his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe to kill you.” He sighed. “And then follow your tracks back to your truck, kill the rest of you, and figure it out from there.”

  Ray wiped snow from his numb cheeks and stared into Matt’s eyes. “I didn’t kill you. I could have.”

  Matt stuck out his lower lip and nodded. “That’s true. I mean, you did leave me tied up in that fucking truck with a bag over my head. But you didn’t kill me.” The wind picked up, and snow hissed as it blew through the trees. “I guess you get points for that. But all I have is the snowcat, and you have a nice warm truck.”

  “Please,” Ray said. “Kill me. Just let them go. There’s no reason to hurt them.”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed. He lifted the barrel of the gun and aimed it at the center of Ray’s head. “I’ll think about it.”

  Ray closed his eyes. I’m sorry, Ellen. I’m sorry, William. I did my best. And I failed.

  The shot never came. Ray opened his eyes. Matt lowered the barrel. “No, you’re right, old man. You let me live. Even though you were a total dick to me, it wouldn’t be fair to kill you without giving you a chance.” He smiled. “You see? I’m not such a bad guy.”

  Ray shivered. The cold had burrowed deep into his bones. “There’s no need. She’s gone. You’re free.”

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “I guess I am. Free to do whatever I want, right?” He started laughing. “You were such a dick, though, knocking me around when I was handcuffed and slamming my head into the wall. You cut my neck, too. It still won’t heal. So I think I should hurt you a little, too. Just to be fair.”

  “Please,” Ray said.

  Matt sighed. “How about this. I’m going to start heading back to my snowcat and then visit your people. But I’ll take my time, okay? You get there first, you’re golden. If I get there first, well, I might just have to take that nice truck and maybe that lady friend of yours to keep me warm at night. No kids, though—I’m not ready for kids. I think I need to mature a little more first. That sounds fair, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it, old man?”

  Ray lowered his head. “Please. You don’t have to do this.”

  Matt held out his hand. “Come on. I’ll give you a hand up. You don’t look so good, honestly. Here. Take my hand.”

  Ray shook his head.

  “Come on. I could just shoot you, you know. I’m trying to be fair.” He leaned closer. “Here. Let me help you up before I get really annoyed.”

  Ray stuck out his hand. Matt pulled him to his feet. Ray swayed. His feet were numb and it took him a moment to steady himself. It felt like his legs were sticks.

  “See?” Matt said. “I told you I play fair.” And then Ray felt the impact of the fist against the side of his face. He fell onto his back, tasting blood in his mouth.

  “You motherfucker,” he said, bright red spit spraying as he spoke. Several of his teeth felt loose.

  Matt laughed. “Happy trails, old man. It’s getting dark. I hope you can find your way.” He turned away, still laughing, and began trudging through the snow.

  That’s when Ray remembered the knife holstered to his belt. He reached beneath his coat and wrapped his right hand around the handle. His index finger was useless, bent at an ugly angle, but he managed to hold tight to the handle with his nearly numb hand and pull it from its sheath. He rolled to a sitting position and hoisted himself to his knees. When he tried to stand he slipped and fell, then pulled himself up again. If he didn’t get to warmth soon his feet would be frostbitten, if they weren’t already. He envisioned himself with no hands or feet, just stumps, and forced it away. No. He’d made it through too much to end up like that. He tucked the knife behind his arm, out of Matt’s sight, his fingers wrapped around the blade. The young man was already far ahead of him, so he moved quickly, trying not to stumble. His mouth was filling with blood, but he didn’t want to make noise by spitting it out. He rushed ahead, praying silently that he would get close enough to do what he needed to do.

&nb
sp; Matt started laughing again when he heard Ray’s approaching footsteps. He raised the rifle and turned.

  Ray drew back his arm, feeling the blade slicing into his palm.

  “Don’t make me shoot you, Pops. Because—”

  The knife seemed to slow down as it flipped, blade over shaft, through the air. Matt’s eyes widened, then crossed. He didn’t realize what was happening until the blade embedded itself into his neck. He staggered backward, the rifle blasting. Ray felt the bullet whiz past his face. Matt’s free hand went to his neck, which was pumping blood.

  Ray was almost on him.

  Matt raised the rifle.

  When the bullet hit Ray’s leg he screamed and went down. His thigh felt like someone had plunged a hot poker into it. When he looked up, Matt was grasping for the rifle with one hand. The recoil had blown it out of his hands and it lay in the snow, the barrel smoking. His other hand wrapped around the handle of the blood-slicked knife buried in his throat.

  Ray crawled forward. The pain in his leg shot up into his abdomen and he cried out, spraying a cloud of pink spittle. The hole in his snow pants was leaving bloody streaks on the snow. He pulled himself forward a few more inches. Tried to get on his knees.

  Matt’s hand found the rifle. He was sitting up, his eyes wild, mouth moving but nothing coming out but a sickening whistle.

  Ray scrambled forward, screaming as much at the absurdity of the situation as the agonizing pain tearing through his entire right side. He lurched to his knees, his vision going white, just as Matt pulled the rifle into himself and lifted it, the tip of the barrel making circles in front of his chest. Ray fell atop him and for a moment waited for the explosion of sound and the bullet to rip into him and exit out his back. Instead, the rifle was pinned between him and Matt. They were face to face, eyes locked, Matt hissing and gurgling, his teeth clenched. Ray’s eyes were inches from the knife handle.

  “This is for those kids you killed, you fucker,” he said. He grabbed the knife handle with both hands and pushed with all his might. Something crunched.

  Matt blinked.

  He twisted the knife in a circle and felt it scrape bone. Matt’s eyes widened even further, then they emptied, and just like that Ray knew the man was dead.

  He rolled off and gagged. There was nothing in his stomach but the blood he had swallowed so he dry heaved, convulsing on his side in the snow, holding his hand against the burning hole in his leg to staunch the bleeding.

  The wind hissed, blowing ice through the tree branches.

  He rolled toward Matt. Closed his eyes as he wrapped both hands around the slick handle of the knife. It took three tries before he could yank it out of Matt’s corpse. He opened Matt’s jacket and cut off a strip from his flannel shirt. He wrapped it around the hole in his pants, but before he did, he caught a glimpse of the wound and nearly passed out. It was deep, like a tiny, ragged mouth.

  He cut another, wider strip, and wrapped it tightly atop the first. It immediately bloomed red. He dug through Matt’s coat and pants pockets and found what he hoped was there. A flashlight. When he twisted the bottom and the beam played out against the dark gray snow, he started crying. At least something was working in his favor.

  He grabbed the rifle and used it like a crutch to stand. He nearly buckled, but thought of Ellen, and William, and took one step forward.

  “Please, please, let me get back,” he said, his words vanishing in the gust of icy air. His tears grew cold, and he imagined they were freezing on his skin.

  He took another step, leaning into the rifle and hopping on his left leg. And then he took another.

  He went on that way until he collapsed in the darkness.

  —

  He opened his eyes. His eyelashes were crusted in snow, making sparkling stars dance around him. He couldn’t feel his body at all. It was like he didn’t even have a body anymore.

  Above him in a tree, watching him and illuminated by the brilliant, full moon, was an enormous white owl.

  “Hi,” he tried to say, but only a tiny bit of air came out of his lungs.

  The owl hopped to a lower branch. Its eyes were so big. Eyes that big could probably see everything, even invisible things.

  The owl landed on his chest. It was enormous. But its pupils—they were dark windows to another place. Black portals to infinity. Yes. He could see how big it was in there. And it was getting bigger the longer he looked into them.

  —

  “Ray. Hey, old buddy.”

  An old black man with a scarred face. Sitting on a tree stump dressed in a white suit and pink tie. And a toothy smile that Ray could never forget. The sun was so bright it was nearly blinding.

  “Micah.”

  The old man nodded. “So good to see you, Ray. It’s been a long time.”

  Ray wanted to hug the old man but his body wasn’t working. It was like he was nothing at all, just air, or smoke.

  “You can’t go any further, Ray. You’re a fighter, old friend. You did the work that needed to be done, and you made me proud. But now it’s time for you to rest.”

  “Ellen,” he said, his voice a whisper.

  Micah smiled. “She’s gonna be all right. If you can hold on just a little bit longer, you’ll see for yourself. And then you can come along with me.”

  He started to speak, but Micah was gone and it was night again. The owl moved its face close to his and he felt its feathers brush against his cheek. Then it hopped off his chest, landed, then lifted off again, soundlessly, its wings spreading as it rose into the night sky.

  He was dying. As the buzzing grew in his ears, he knew it was the sound of death. It grew louder, shaking his body like a dry leaf, and light flashed in his eyes.

  More light, beams flashing. The buzzing stopped. And then someone appeared over him, a shadow. Were the dead coming to take him away? But the dead didn’t wear hooded coats, did they?

  The hood pulled back and he saw Ellen’s face. Upside down, but undeniably her, and radiantly beautiful. She lifted his head and cradled it in her arms, saying his name over and over again, though she sounded so far away. And though his body was ice, her tears warmed his skin as they dripped onto his cheeks. He moved his lips, or tried to, to say I love you.

  And then he remembered his vision in the caverns beneath Eleusis.

  Then behind Ellen, Mantu. And William. And then Claire. Konstantin. His friends blotting out everything else.

  They had made it. They were going to make it.

  He felt himself unknitting, particle by particle, by what felt like thousands of hands.

  “Come on, Ray,” Micah whispered. “You did good.”

  And then he melted into the endless, empty whiteness.

  To those who have taught me real magic:

  Ormond McGill, John Michael Greer, Josephine McCarthy

  Thanks to Bob Maharrey for the helicopter info.

  Any mistakes on that subject are all mine.

  To my editor, Sarah, for taking a chance.

  And to Susan, always.

  About the Author

  MICHAEL M. HUGHES writes both fiction and nonfiction. When he’s not writing, Hughes speaks on forteana, magic, the paranormal, psychedelia, pop culture, and other topics, and he teaches regular workshops on the tarot. He lives in Baltimore with his wife, two daughters, a cat, and a rabbit named Toby Turnipseed. You can follow him and sign up for his newsletter at michaelmhughes.com.

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