The creature walked to the old furnace. The gas line feeding it descended vertically from the pipes that ran along the ceiling. There was a valve in the line, at about eye level. The monster turned it.
A hissing came from within the furnace.
Opening the iron door, Hollis Jurkowski’s body climbed inside, the gas from the burners stirring up dust mixed with finely powdered ash from the furnace’s coal-burning days. It blew in his face, giving off that vaguely unpleasant odor peculiar to natural gas. The term ill wind flitted through what was left of Hollis Jurkowski’s consciousness, but it seemed to have no significance. The furnace was supposed to have a safety device that prevented the gas from coming on if the pilot light was out, but the device had broken long ago. Jurkowski had ordered a new one but never installed it. After all, the old furnace was never used.
Reaching into his pocket, Jurkowski’s body pulled out a book of matches.
Peeled off a match.
And struck it.
The gas ignited with a foom! Instantly the inside of the furnace was an inferno.
Hollis Jurkowski writhed in pain.
The monster writhed with him.
And then it fed on his life’s energy.
3
Elementary school students were sitting at their desks shivering the next day, because the building’s heating system wouldn’t work properly. In the absence of the janitor, the principal went down to the basement to investigate, discovering the old, normally unused furnace going full tilt. The janitor from the high school was called in to get things working properly again. After the old furnace had cooled, he checked it out, finding what appeared to be fragments of human bone.
Although by themselves the bones were unidentifiable, Don Farraday was sure they were all that remained of Hollis Jurkowski.
4
It was still raining two days later, when Phil Deemis walked out of the office of his Shell station with a .357 Magnum in his hand, blew away two customers, then walked down the block, crossed the street, and stepped into the grocery store, where he shot two employees and two customers. Then he stuck the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger, blowing his brains all over a display of Nabisco crackers.
His aim was good. Everyone he shot, including himself, died.
5
A few days after that, Todd Wolfe, the owner-bartender of the Icicle Lounge, got up in the middle of the night to take a leak. When he returned to the bedroom, he got his .38 from the closet, loaded it, and blew away his wife, Sally. Then he walked across the street and began ringing the Nowaskis’ doorbell. When Ike Nowaski opened the door, Wolfe shot him, then walked inside and shot his wife, Nancy, and their two children. Next he put the gun to his eye, as if wanting to watch death as it came down the barrel, and pulled the trigger. Nancy was the only survivor of the shooting spree.
It was still raining.
6
Don Farraday stood at the window, watching the rain fall outside the police station. “It’s never going to stop,” he muttered.
Corrine Matthews either didn’t hear him or didn’t care to reply. They didn’t seem to talk much anymore, he and Corrine. Like everyone else on the island, they waited nervously to see what would happen next, not talking because there was only one thing to discuss and talking about that was just too scary. So people fidgeted, worried, and waited in silence.
Don had been afraid there would be some sort of mob hysteria. Someone says it’s all Joe’s fault because Joe’s a Unitarian or a Christian Scientist or a Jew or practices black magic in his basement, but nothing like that had happened. No one had pointed an accusing finger. No one had sought a scapegoat. It made Don think Ice Islanders were a cut above the settlers of Salem, Massachusetts, and a lot of the people living in Germany during the Thirties.
Corrine got up and walked to the coffeepot, her movement stirring the air in the room, bringing the fetid odor of death to Don’s nostrils. Having nowhere else to put the corpses, he’d begun storing them in an unused room in the back of the building. Although he’d shut off the heat to the room, it wasn’t cold enough to preserve the bodies, which were decomposing. Despite his efforts to contain the smell—he’d taped the door and jammed rags underneath it—it was seeping into the rest of the building. Every day it got a little worse. Soon it would become intolerable.
The phone rang, and Corrine hurried back to her desk to answer it. “Really?” she said after listening for a moment. “That’s great! I’ll spread the news.” When she hung up, she was actually smiling. Don had nearly forgotten what a smile looked like.
She said, “The Split, it’s over. That was the Highway Department. They said the rain has melted so much of the ice that the ferry can start running.”
Don just grinned at her. Could they really be over, these weeks of isolation and madness? He’d thought the Split wouldn’t end for another week at least, but the rain was doing to the ice on the lake what it had done to the ice and snow on the island, all of which had long since been washed away.
“When will the ferry start running?” he asked.
“Tomorrow morning.” Corrine was so happy she seemed barely able to restrain herself from jumping up and down. Instantly she was on the phone, spreading the word.
The phone rang again, and because Corrine was on another line, Don sat down at his desk and answered it. It was Lieutenant Roper of the state police, who told him what Corrine had just told him.
“Help’s on the way,” the state policeman said. “We’ll be there tomorrow on the first ferry run of the afternoon.”
“Bring plenty of body bags.”
“How many do you need?”
“How many have you got?”
When Don ended the conversation with Roper, he saw that Corrine was still happily spreading the word. The Split was over. It would make everyone joyous. Not only was the isolation over, but the horror that had accompanied the Split, by inference, was over as well. At least that’s what everyone would be hoping.
But was it true?
Help was on the way. The bodies would be removed. The killings would be investigated by competent professionals. On the other hand, the Evil was still here. Don glanced down at the black case on the floor by his desk. Although Kesselring was up and around now, he was still recovering from the beating he’d received. So the thing in the case was still Don’s responsibility.
The Evilslayer.
He’d named it, as if it were a magical sword in a fantasy. After all, he couldn’t deny that the pulsating spike was magical. And he was living a fantasy, a dark and horrible fairy tale in which one of Satan’s minions was indulging in a sanguinary frenzy.
The thing would try to leave the island now that the Split had ended. Don sighed, slowly shaking his head, for he would have to try to stop it.
No, he thought, why the hell should I? Let the damn thing go. The island’ll be free of it. I’ll be free of it. It may go on killing, but at least it won’t be killing here. What right does Kesselring have to lay this on me? If I run someone through with the Evilslayer, I’ll be guilty of murder.
He could hear himself in court. You don’t understand. I had to kill him. He was dead anyway, and it was the only way to kill the Evil. The Evil? Why, that’s a hairy thing with an iguana face, one of Satan’s minions. I thought everybody knew that.
Uh-huh. They’d either send him off to the funny farm or declare him guilty of murder and send him off to Jackson, where he’d have great fun being a combination sex object and punching bag—until they tired of their fun and killed him.
To hell with you, Kesselring, Don thought. You can have your damn Evilslayer back. I’m resigning from the Ghostbusters. From now on you’re on your own. Over and out. This boy’s gone.
With his foot, he pushed the black case a little farther from him.
7
Ten minutes later, Kesselring phoned, said he was leaving on the first ferry in the morning, and asked Don to meet him there with the black case.
Eighteen
“The Split’s officially over!” someone in the assembled group yelled, and they all cheered. The big yellow ferry gently nudged the rubber bumpers at the edge of the landing. Two crewmen jumped off with lines and secured them to the large metal cleats on both sides of the landing.
A white truck that said always fresh bakery on its side rolled off the boat, the first of many deliveries to the island that would be made today. There were about a dozen cars lined up, waiting to board. Not all of the thirty or so people who were there had come to take the ferry, of course. Some of them had just come to see it arrive for the first time that year. It was like a ceremony celebrating the end of winter, the beginning of a new season of life.
Even the weather was cooperating. The rain had finally stopped. Though still overcast, the sky was brightening.
Looking at the faces of the people around him, Don saw hope mixed with a sort of dazed uncertainty. Hope seemed to dominate. The people of Ice Island were ready to believe the madness was over. Soon, Don thought. He looked for Kesselring but didn’t see him.
Don was holding the black case containing the Evilslayer.
The case seemed lifeless, as if the thing inside had lost its energy. Allison and Sarah had asked him about it, the black case he always took with him, and he’d answered with statements like, “Oh, just something I’m working on.” After a while they quit asking, but they never stopped looking at the case with a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness.
Now he was getting rid of it.
The cars had begun driving onto the ferry. Don watched as they went past him, seeing familiar faces. A few people waved. He waved back. And he wondered whether one of them was more than he seemed, whether one of them was carrying along a parasite that would turn him into a killer.
Although he felt a little guilty about it, Don hoped so. Not because he wished any of these people bad luck, but because someone was serving as the host, and if it was one of these people, the creature would soon be off the island. Along with Kesselring and his Evilslayer. All gone. And life on the island would return to normal. It would again be a safe place to live, a place where you didn’t have to lock your door, except maybe when the summer people were there. A place where nobody was getting rich, but where most folks were pretty content with what they had.
Don watched the cars driving onto the ferry. Be in one of them, he thought. Be gone. Leave us alone.
The last car in line was Kesselring’s rented yellow Chevy. The ex-cop drove past Don as if he hadn’t seen him standing there. Don ran after him, stepping onto the ferry, and moving up beside Kesselring’s car. He tapped on the driver’s-side window. The ex-cop rolled it down.
“So you’re really giving up,” Don said. It was both a question and a statement.
“Yes.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Why? I’m old and I’m tired. If someone else wants this fight, they can have it. I’m through.”
“Because you got so close, then failed.”
The ex-cop sighed. He really did look tired, beaten. “That’s a lot of it, yes. I should have shot Jurkowski in the legs. I guess I was stupid not to. It was just that I was afraid something would go wrong and I’d kill him. Or maybe he’d get the gun away from me. I’ve spent a lot of years working under the rule that you never, under any circumstances, take a gun into a jail.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Go back to Pittsburgh, try to relax, try to start living like a retired person’s supposed to live.”
Don nodded.
“The beating I got did a lot to convince me. I’m not young enough to take that anymore.”
“It’s not that easy on young guys either,” Don said. “I think you’re doing the right thing. This isn’t a battle either one of us is equipped to wage.”
Reaching in through the car window, Don put his hand on Kesselring’s shoulder. The ex-cop nearly flinched. Don could feel the tension in him. It was as if the man’s muscles were twisting and untwisting beneath Don’s fingers, pulling in opposite directions, fighting with themselves.
“It’s been here, I guess, for thousands of years,” Kesselring said. “Maybe it’s been here since the Earth was created. I was out of my league to fight a thing like that. Hell, maybe it’s meant to be here.”
“Maybe it is,” Don said.
Two more cars pulled onto the ferry.
The island had fresh bread again, and it would soon have fresh meat and produce as well. Within the next few days, all sorts of things merchants were out of or nearly out of would be restocked. And the mail would arrive again. The weather that had kept the state police helicopter away had also kept Jerry Atwell from flying over to drop the mail by parachute. Now mail could go out again, too, something that was impossible during the Split, regardless of the weather.
People who needed things that were unavailable on the island would again be able to get them on the mainland. Churchgoers who weren’t Lutheran would be able to attend services. You could see a chiropractor, take a vacation, order something from Spiegel’s or L. L. Bean. You could buy a new car, replace your stereo system, buy a hardcover book or a compact disc.
The end of the Split meant you were part of the United States again, reconnected with the mainstream of American life, once more in contact with the world. Sure, you could watch satellite TV from anywhere in the world during the Split, and you could call your aunt in Miami or your granddad in Tucson, but you could do all those things from Antarctica too. The end of the Split always felt good.
“I think you’re doing the right thing,” Don said again. “You gave it your best shot. There’s nothing more you can do.”
“In any case,” Kesselring said, “it’s over.”
“Here,” Don said, holding up the case containing the Evilslayer. “This belongs to you.”
The ex-cop shook his head. “I don’t need it anymore.”
“You went a long way to find the parts for it and get it made.”
“It would just be a reminder.”
“That’s all well and good,” Don said, “but if you don’t want it, then it’s up to you to dispose of it.” He pushed the case partway into the open window.
Kesselring moved away from it. “Just … just throw it into the lake.”
Kesselring was leaning away from the Evilslayer as if it were a poisonous snake. The man was serious about having nothing further to do with this whole business. He didn’t even want to touch the case.
“Please,” Kesselring said. “Just throw it in the lake for me. If I do it, it’ll be the ultimate act of failure. I know, it’s just silliness, but I can’t help it. It’s the way I feel.” His eyes looked into Don’s, pleading. “Just let me drive away and forget.”
Don understood where the ex-cop was coming from. He’d spent years on a quest he was giving up. The Evilslayer was something special. Kesselring had put a lot of time and effort and travel into obtaining it. Now he wanted to get rid of it, felt he had to get rid of it, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do the act himself.
“All right,” Don said. “I’ll get rid of it for you.”
“Thank you,” Kesselring said. “Thank you.”
Threading his way between the cars, Don moved to the rail, looked down at the lake. This close to shore there were still chunks of ice floating in the water, but they weren’t large enough or tightly packed enough to prevent the ferry from getting through. He held the case over the rail. As if aware of its fate, the Evilslayer had come to life within its box. Don could feel its energy gently pulsating in his fingertips.
Don just stood there, holding it, not letting go.
And he thought about Kesselring, how he’d abruptly given up something that was an obsession with him, how he’d moved away from the case as if Don had thrust a decomposing piece of meat at him. And while he thought about these things, the Evilslayer’s case gently pulsated in his hands.
A crewman hopped off the ferry and walked to
ward one of the cleats to which it was tied. The boat was getting ready to leave. Don stood by the rail, holding the Evilslayer, thinking about Kesselring, thinking about the things the retired cop had told him, thinking about all the people who had died so pointlessly on the island, and all the people who might die that way in the future.
The ferry was pulling away from Ice Island.
Don made no move to get off.
Nor did he drop the Evilslayer into the lake.
A part of him was saying that what he was thinking was impossible, that anyone who would believe such shit was stark raving bug-fuck. That portion of his mind was also screaming that even if he was right, he should just forget about it, throw the damned Evilslayer over the side, walk away. He had the chance to put all this behind him, get back to a normal life with Allison and Sarah, and nobody but a goddamned idiot would pass that chance up.
And yet he kept thinking about Kesselring.
And about all the people who’d died on the island.
Allison and Sarah could have been among them. It was probably just luck they weren’t. Any one of their neighbors could have walked in and blown them away. Or Allison could have been the killer. Or Sarah. Or him.
His left hand, the one in which he held the case, was beginning to tingle, as if the Evilslayer were sending him messages. Yes, yes, yes, it seemed to say. Do what you have to do, what we have to do.
No, Don thought. Walk away. You don’t even know whether you’re right.
But he knew he was going to find out.
The ferry was picking up speed, Ice Island growing smaller. The people who’d shown up to watch its arrival were leaving now, getting into their cars and driving away. Don went back to Kesselring’s car, rapped on the passenger-side window. Kesselring looked surprised. He made no move to open the window. Don tapped on it again. This time the ex-cop rolled it down.
“I didn’t know you were going to the mainland,” the retired cop said.
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