by Brett Riley
Huddling with the others against the rain, LeBlanc said, Remember, we can’t all shoot at once. I’m first. Red, you go next. Joyce, cover us. If all three of us run outta ammo at once, we’re dead, so don’t panic, you hear?
I got it, Johnstone said. Her eyes were wide and alert, her jaw clenched.
Yeah, said Thornapple, his gaze roving everywhere.
Driving alone, Adam Garner pulled into the parking lot and headed straight for the Dead House, leaving Raymond to U-turn so he could back in. The building loomed out of the rain, its windows like a skull’s blank eyes. Garner’s 20-gauge sat in the gun rack behind his head, its barrel pointed toward the passenger door. The five-gallon cans of gasoline and the tarps with all the extra ammo and salt shifted in the bed as he bounced over the uneven ground. Near the fence, LeBlanc and the others leaped out of Thornapple’s truck and fanned out, their guns readied like soldiers walking behind enemy lines. When Garner got close enough to the Dead House to see the individual chips in its paint through the driving rain, he braked and maneuvered through the grassy parts of the yard, making a half-turn and then backing up until his tailgate pointed at the Dead House’s front door. Then he put the truck in drive and moved it away another five yards or so. Too close and the truck would go up when the building did. Too far and they were all likely to die trying to reload. He clambered out, the rain beating down so hard his slicker’s hood fell over his face. He grabbed the shotgun’s stock and yanked, wondering if he would feel slugs slamming into his abdomen, his jaw, his temple, if he would find himself falling down a long dark hole with nothing at the bottom but Lorena Harveston and John Wayne and maybe even the Kid himself. But when he got the shotgun free and pulled the hood off his head, nothing was there.
Holding the shotgun in his right hand, Garner trotted to the tailgate, his heavy tread splashing water and mud as high as his waist. He let the tailgate down and listened to Turner and the others slogging through the yard. Hopefully, they would make it across the open field of fire without incident.
McDowell winced as the sprayer dug in to her back. Raymond threw the car into reverse and eased toward the Dead House. The rental had not been built to mud-hog in a goddam monsoon. If he lost control, he might run Garner down or, even worse, careen into the truck. If that happened to start a fire that ignited the ammo in the trunk, the four of them would be blown to the moon, and even with salt rounds, LeBlanc and the others would get torn to shreds. The rental slid, the caliche as solid as steel underneath an inch or two of mud.
Any sign of the Kid? Raymond asked.
No, said Frost and McDowell.
Raymond rolled up beside Garner’s truck, the vehicles five feet apart and ten yards from the Dead House. He popped the trunk, and they stepped into the driving rain. Dark seemed to be coming faster than it should have in late summer, as if the storm had appeared just to blind them.
Raymond retrieved his shotgun. Frost stood beside Garner. McDowell pushed the trunk lid down without shutting it, to provide easy access to the ammo and salt. Raymond joined her, still watching the grounds.
When the other group bunched up near the Dead House, LeBlanc cursed. Y’all watch your interval, he was about to shout, but before he could, the air in front of him shimmered, and the Kid appeared, those long stick arms hanging at his sides as if attached without muscle and sinew. Somewhere to his left, Johnstone cried out in a strangled voice. It’s one thing to hear about this. It’s another to see it. The Kid’s eyes ran and shrank and vanished, leaving only the baleful glare of empty sockets.
Thornapple fired, and the Kid winked out, his scream filling LeBlanc’s head. Thornapple’s mouth hung open, and he was looking at his gun as if he had never seen one before.
I told you to let me shoot first, LeBlanc said.
Thornapple looked embarrassed. Sorry. It was instinct.
From somewhere behind LeBlanc, over the steady rain and the grumbling thunder, Johnstone called, Get off his back. It ain’t like we fight ghosts every other weekend.
LeBlanc ignored her. He scanned the property, hoping to see the Kid close by or not at all. The rain intensified, pounding as if it had something against them, nearly obscuring the Dead House. He could make out Thornapple’s shape but not his features, could not even tell which way the man faced. Gooseflesh broke out all over LeBlanc’s body. He did not know if the Kid were close, or if he were just scared shitless, or both.
Raymond’s group had nearly reached the Dead House when a shotgun boomed near the fence line. Garner wheeled around. McDowell and Frost paused, looking toward the sound.
Ignore that, Raymond said. Do your jobs.
McDowell turned to him, her face a mask of anguish and fear. But they could ill afford to pause.
She got moving, and the rain intensified, obscuring their view of LeBlanc’s crew. They tramped through puddles and slid through muck and slipped over the steel-hard ground beneath it, trying to cover those last few yards before anything else happened.
And then the Kid floated in front of them, blocking their path. McDowell and Frost stopped in their tracks, Frost’s feet flying out from under him. He splooshed into the standing water and mud like a child falling backward into a shallow pool, landing with his spine arced across the sprayer unit, grimacing in pain. He moaned and tried to stand. Garner helped him up, both goggling at the Kid.
McDowell’s eyes were bleeding again, her jaw clenched in pain as she tried to ease around the apparition. He floated like a Halloween decoration. Raymond’s scrotum tightened. He gripped the gun so hard he might well have left impressions in the metal. Watching the Kid for any sign of movement, he still barely registered when the Kid whirled, drew his gun, and fired at McDowell, the sound of the report thundering in Raymond’s mind. Frost winced, one hand at his temple. McDowell skidded in the mud just before the shot. The bullet did not strike her in the head or the heart or wherever the Kid might have aimed, but it hit her nonetheless. She screamed and spun, falling into the water.
Raymond cried her name, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The Kid vanished. Salt smacked into the Dead House, knocking loose three or four boards. Raymond and Garner splashed toward McDowell.
Oh, hell, Frost said from somewhere near the building.
Garner turned and said, Aw shit.
The trucker tried to run back the way they had come, his feet slipping and sliding under him in ways that would have been comical under other circumstances. He held the 20-gauge above his head and yelled, No! Here!
The Kid had reappeared in front of Frost and had drawn both of his Howitzers. Frost raised his hands as if he were being robbed, the sprayer wand swinging at his side, bumping against his leg and twirling about. The Kid fired anyway. Frost held his hands in front of his face. After a moment, he patted his torso, looking for the wound.
Garner reached him and pointed to the wand. The hose had been blown apart. The wand lay in the water at Frost’s feet. Frost picked it up, held it out to the Kid, and then tossed it aside. He grabbed the dripping hose and tied it off.
An almost imperceptible movement of his head suggested the Kid had noticed Garner.
Frost stepped in front of the bigger man, hands up.
Move, Doc, hissed Garner.
No, said Frost, his voice shaking. He isn’t after me.
You’re takin a hell of a chance.
The Kid did not lower the gun, but he also did not shoot. Gently, slowly, Garner pulled the sprayer off Frost, the professor holding his arms back to allow the contraption to slide off.
Shit fuck hell, he whispered.
When it was free, Garner said, I’m backin up to the truck.
Frost nodded, and they walked backward, glancing at the truck every few steps until they reached it. Then Garner dropped the sprayer unit into the bed, and they eased away.
McDowell moaned.
Hell, I forgot all about her, Raymo
nd thought.
Raymond knelt beside her. She had rolled onto her right side and held her left arm, her eyes shut tight, her teeth clenched in agony. Trying to balance his gun in the crook of his own injured arm, he put his good hand on her back.
He got me, she whimpered. Oh shit, it hurts.
Maybe the Kid aimed for her sprayer unit, too, and her slippin in the mud got her shot. Or maybe he knows she can feel him and don’t like it. Either way, she’s gotta get outta here.
Raymond needed to remove her slicker to examine the arm, but ignoring the Kid that long seemed like a terrible idea. Raymond helped McDowell sit up and eased the sprayer off her back. He put a hand on her good shoulder.
Get to the street, he said. We gotta finish this.
She waved him off. Don’t worry about me. Go.
LeBlanc’s group shouted at each other, but Raymond had no time to listen. The Kid appeared in front of him, those blank, gray eyes regarding him. Raymond set the sprayer on the ground and moved away from it. The Kid watched. Huh. He knows what they’re for. Raymond reached out slowly, as if to touch the sprayer again, and would have sworn in a court of law that the Kid’s hand twitched. He straightened up and backed away. The Kid vanished.
He’s watchin every move we make, Raymond said. Adam, go fetch Darrell and them.
Garner splashed toward the fence while Raymond stood near McDowell in the driving rain. Once Garner disappeared into the darkness, Raymond picked up the unit and ran for the truck. The Kid did not reappear. Raymond set the sprayer in the bed and then waded back to McDowell. The vehicles sat there, lumps in the dark, bright in the intermittent lightning. Frost remained near the truck, looking lost.
They could not get near the Dead House with the units. What the hell were they supposed to do?
When the gunfire at the Dead House began, LeBlanc could make out only vague shapes moving in the downpour. Thunder boomed. Hard rain spattered the standing water. If it rains any harder, we’re gonna see a boat loadin animals two by two. LeBlanc had no idea what to do. He might as well have been trying to navigate the Mississippi in pea-soup fog with cotton stuffed in his ears.
I can’t see a goddam thing, Thornapple said. What now?
First off, get back to your position before we both get shot. Don’t do nothin unless I do it first, you hear?
They could be gettin massacred over there. We can’t just leave ’em.
Goddam it, you think I don’t know that?
Thornapple looked at him for a moment and then backed away. Johnstone was nowhere in sight, but he could not worry about everyone at once. If all three of them moved in, they would be abandoning their strategy and might get somebody killed, yet he could not leave Thornapple and Johnstone alone. He gritted his teeth and cursed, wishing the weather would at least give him a clear line of sight. How was he supposed to decide when he could not even see?
And then, in the thunder’s brief cessation, high-pitched and anguished, connoting all the pain he had hoped to spare them from: a woman’s scream. The thunder boomed again, cutting off the sound, but he had heard enough.
He cupped his free hand to his mouth. Red! Joyce! Get over here!
They ran to him, their weapons held in both hands and pointed at the ground, as hunters were taught to move through the forests.
We goin in or what? Thornapple asked.
We’re goin in, said LeBlanc. Spread out. I’ll take point. If the Kid shows himself, know where you’re shootin. If either of you hits Betsy, you won’t need to worry about that fuckin ghost. And call out so the others know you’re comin. Do we understand each other?
Johnstone’s eyes widened. She raised her gun to her shoulder. Somethin’s comin through.
LeBlanc whirled, raising his gun as Thornapple stepped up and aimed. A human form trotted toward them, splashing water. It carried a shotgun, not pistols. Plus, the shape looked all wrong. The Kid was shortish and gaunt and floated along. This one was taller, beefier, its legs pumping. They could hear it. After another second or two, the clothing and the god-awful slicker became visible.
LeBlanc lowered his weapon. Don’t shoot. It’s Garner.
The big trucker ran up, huffing great lungfuls of air, and croaked, Y’all, come quick. The Kid keeps cuttin us off. He shot Betsy.
How bad? LeBlanc asked, dreading the answer.
I don’t know.
LeBlanc motioned Johnstone and Thornapple forward. They fanned out. Johnstone swung wide to the southwest, circling around the cars. Thornapple headed straight for the buildings. That left the middle, so LeBlanc and Garner moved several feet apart and marched toward the vehicles.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
September 16, 2016, Full Dark—Comanche, Texas
The rain would not let up. I doubt we can set that building on fire in this storm, Raymond thought. Unless we get inside. He glanced toward the fence. The others should be close. His decision to bring them over would likely get someone killed.
The ghost rematerialized in the same spot from which it had disappeared. It watched Raymond, as if waiting for his next move.
After a moment, everyone’s voices rang out—Johnstone’s low and smoky and somewhere in the lot, Thornapple’s close to the Dead House itself, LeBlanc’s familiar baritone coming from who knew where. Though it likely did not depend on human senses, even the ghost seemed confused. The water dripping into Raymond’s eyes might have played tricks on him, but it seemed the Kid’s head turned back and forth, just a little. Had they managed to confuse him, coming from so many directions at once?
Then Thornapple loomed behind the ghost, appearing out of the rain like a specter himself, shouting, Move!
As the Kid turned toward Thornapple, Raymond whirled and covered McDowell with his body. He jarred his bad hand and screamed, white-hot agony shooting up his entire arm. He dropped his gun.
Thornapple fired, and the Kid disappeared, salt zipping over Raymond and McDowell’s heads. Turner screamed. Had he been hit, despite the warning?
Johnstone slipped up behind Raymond and McDowell, trying, like the rest of them, to see everywhere at once, when the Kid appeared in front of her. She fired from the hip. The Kid dissipated, that agonized yowl echoing in Thornapple’s head. The newsman felt weak. If Johnstone had shot just a few degrees to the side, he and Turner would have taken salt rounds to the face.
Johnstone must have realized it, too. We’re gonna shoot each other, she called.
Converge on us, but don’t bunch up, Turner said, sounding miserable. He rolled over as more gunfire erupted nearby.
The pealing thunder, the guns’ roaring, Turner’s expostulations, the others’ shouting—every sound seemed to come from everywhere. Visibility remained poor. The rain would let up for a moment, and Thornapple would glimpse someone darting toward God only knew what, and then the deluge would intensify again, obscuring everything farther than eight or ten feet away. He moved toward McDowell and Turner, who held his injured hand in agony, his mouth a rictus grin. McDowell tended to him with one arm.
Is he hit? Thornapple asked.
McDowell’s bleeding eyes were wide and shocked. No, he landed on his bad hand. You see his gun anywhere?
Thornapple felt his gorge rise. McDowell looked like a victim of some exotic disease. He bent and felt about in the standing water with his free hand.
Gunfire boomed again. Someone groaned, followed by the sound of a large body hitting the water.
Turner managed to sit up. Never mind my gun. Help Darrell and them.
Thornapple stood. Shit fire and save the matches. We’re just runnin all over the place. Please, y’all, don’t shoot Joyce.
When LeBlanc heard the shots, he stopped in his tracks. Everybody sound off! he cried.
Here, Garner said.
Johnstone and Thornapple did not answer. He was about to shout their names when multiple
voices erupted from beyond the vehicles he and Garner had not even reached. Thornapple and Johnstone, acting like the goddam amateurs they were, must have practically run over there while he and Garner walked like they were in a minefield. He cursed.
Adam, you got any idea where they are?
Garner opened his mouth to reply, but then the Kid floated before them. LeBlanc raised his shotgun and fired. The specter evaporated before Garner could move.
Shit, that fucker’s fast, the trucker said. And then his eyes widened, and he shoved LeBlanc to the side, yelling, Look out!
Garner fired. Salt thudded against the Dead House’s façade as LeBlanc stumbled five or six feet, skidding in the mud. As he regained his balance, his legs spread nearly to the point of ripping his groin muscles, the Kid appeared behind Garner. LeBlanc raised his shotgun. Garner saw him and dropped, the water splashing as if he had cannonballed off a diving board. LeBlanc fired, and the Kid disappeared again. The shotgun’s kick overbalanced LeBlanc. He fell on his back, and the lot almost swallowed him whole. Mud and loose grass and rainwater flowed into his eyes and up his nose, and as he sat up, sputtering, the Kid appeared again. LeBlanc raised his shotgun and fired from the sitting position, obliterating the Kid and one of the Dead House’s windows. Garner got to his knees, coughing and hacking, covered in mud.
Who’s shootin? Johnstone cried. Where is everybody?
We’re just in front of the trucks, LeBlanc called. Where’s Ray and Betsy and Jake?
He and Garner struggled to their feet, Garner still coughing. How much damage were they doing to the trucks? Could salt ignite gasoline?
This ain’t workin, LeBlanc said. We need a new plan.
Johnstone cursed to their left somewhere. They got moving again.