by Pawlik, Tom
But Mitch was growing weary of it. All of it.
Some time ago, he’d developed a keen interest in books, but even that had started to grow stale. He’d begun reading at first just to pass the long hours of tedium, starting with pop fiction novellas and working his way up through more arduous tomes. After the first two years on the farm, he’d amassed quite a literary collection during their weekly jaunts into town. Besides fiction he had also dabbled in biochemistry, astronomy, and philosophy. He would always make sure to stop by a library or bookstore to pilfer an armload of anything that caught his interest. Though pilfer wasn’t exactly an accurate descriptor. More like confiscate, impound, sequester.
He’d also collected several dictionaries, a set of Encyclopedias Britannica, and something called a thesaurus.
The truck rattled and squeaked as they drove along. Mitch slouched against his window, watching the drab landscape roll past while Howard whistled a cheerful tune.
“It’s time for an oil change again,” Mitch muttered, noting that the engine was sputtering a bit. Howard had certainly made use of Mitch’s skills as a mechanic during their time together. Mitch didn’t mind, though. It kept him busy and passed the time.
Howard interrupted his tune to reply. “I think there’s still plenty left in that quick mart over on Highway 20. Remind me to stop by on the way home.”
“And we also need more food. I noticed a paucity of peanut butter this morning.”
“Paucity, huh? I just picked some up last week.” Howard snorted. “Boy, you’re eatin’ me outta house and home. Where d’you put all that food anyway?”
“It would seem my appetite is rapacious.”
“I think I liked you better before you started all that reading.”
They rolled into Harris, a small town just thirty miles south of them. They had come across it only two weeks ago, so there was still plenty of gas left to siphon. Mitch had stopped wondering why the gasoline in all these abandoned vehicles had not gone bad yet. There was no telling how long they had been sitting there dormant. And after a time, gas just went bad. But thankfully they never had any issues. The gas always seemed to work just fine.
They spent the next three hours canvassing the whole northwest quadrant of the town, working their way toward the quaint downtown business district. A variety of shops and stores lined the wide main street. Howard had compiled a shopping list and was headed for the hardware store. Mitch, however, spotted a small bookstore down the street and said he was going in for a peek. Howard muttered something about not being surprised and waved him off.
Mitch entered the darkened store and listened for any odd sounds. The aliens generally kept to the shadows, so one never knew what one might find in a darkened building. But the place seemed quiet enough. The musty scent of old paper filled the shop. Enough daylight filtered through the front windows to allow Mitch to scan the shelves as he strolled up the aisle. He ignored the magazines, the weight loss and the workout books. He paused for a moment at the how-to section for anything that might prove helpful, but nothing caught his eye.
Next he came to the fiction aisle: romance, romance . . . more romance. Historical romance, suspense romance, Western romance, romantic comedy. Coming to the end of the aisle, Mitch was turning to go down the next when he stopped in his tracks and let out an involuntary gasp.
Another man stood in the aisle before him.
He was a slender black guy, just over six feet tall, probably in his thirties, Mitch guessed, with short-cropped hair and a goatee. He wore plain faded jeans and a black T-shirt. And sunglasses.
Mitch blinked. Sunglasses? He hadn’t seen the sun in five years.
“Who—who are you?” Mitch stammered, trying not to sound startled.
The stranger removed his glasses. His brown eyes held an intense, almost wild look. “You need to leave that farm,” he said. “You have to get away from him.”
4
DEVON MARSHALL ROLLED out of bed and stood up. His eyes fluttered as the last shreds of sleep drained away, rolling off of him like drops of water. The wake-up buzzer blared through the concrete corridors, rousing the occupants of other rooms. He’d have ten minutes to get ready for breakfast. Ten minutes to wake up, wash up, and get dressed.
He leaned on the tiny rust-stained sink and peered into the cracked mirror. It reflected a distorted image of his face, like broken halves of the same kid staring back at him. But his gaze seemed empty and hollow. Not unlike how he felt.
As juvie facilities went, the Chicago Juvenile Corrections Center on the city’s south side was about as bad as it got. Overcrowded and understaffed, it was often more dangerous here than out on the streets.
They had transferred him two weeks ago after his case had been adjudicated. Illegal possession of a firearm, possession of a controlled substance, possession with intent to sell. The list of parole violations went on. It hadn’t mattered to the court that he’d been shot. It hadn’t mattered that he’d almost died. And it hadn’t mattered to them that the only friend he’d ever had in the world was gone.
Pain sliced through his ribs. Devon winced, placing his hand against the wound on his upper chest. It had healed over but was still tender. The first bullet had entered his upper left pectoral, cracking a rib and piercing his lung. The second bullet had only grazed the back of his left shoulder. He must’ve ducked or slumped forward. Had the second shot also struck his chest, he’d most certainly not be standing here now.
It was all just dumb luck. Whoever had shot them had not stuck around to make sure they finished the job. Maybe they were sloppy. Maybe someone had scared them off. But Devon couldn’t recall who the shooter was or anything else of that night prior to being shot. And the things he did recall, he desperately wished he could forget.
But that part haunted his dreams. The storm. The gray, faceless monsters reaching out grotesque, spidery hands. He could see Terrell’s face, flushed with a purple tinge, screaming for him as the creature pulled him out of the store. He could feel the alien’s elongated fingers tightening around his throat.
And then there were the hallucinations. The tall, thin guy with pasty skin and yellow eyes glaring out from under stringy black hair. Devon would see him every so often in a hallway or the cafeteria. There one moment. Gone the next.
He woke up most nights drenched with sweat, heart pounding, feeling as if someone were choking him. And he would hear voices in the dark whispering words he couldn’t quite make out. He didn’t know if they were real or just his imagination. But one thing he did know…
They weren’t going to leave him alone.
He fell in line for breakfast. Head down, eyes forward. Just stay out of trouble. Stay clear of any scuffles. Don’t look anyone in the eyes.
He had no one from his “community organization” inside. There was no help, no support. Nothing.
He was completely alone.
After breakfast, Devon went to the common area. He still had an hour before classes started. A dozen or so other kids, mostly younger, sat at tables, reading or talking or trying to play checkers.
“Marshall, you got a visitor.”
Devon heard the voice, but his eyes remained unfocused on the room. He’d taken a seat apart from everyone else and fallen into a half-dazed funk. He was finding it harder to concentrate lately.
“Hey, Marshall, you hear me?”
The staff guard was large, round, and dark. He took a few menacing steps toward Devon and waved him over.
Devon got up. The guard led him to the secure visitors’ room. Dismal gray walls and scuffed beige tiles. A long countertop and a sheet of thick glass split the cramped room in half with video cameras on both sides. A speaker system allowed kids to talk with their POs or lawyers. Or on rare occasions, their parents.
A man in a suit was waiting for him on the other side of the glass. Some white guy. His head was down, like he was reading something.
Devon sat down, thinking it might be the public defender or his p
robation officer. Then the guy looked up.
Devon stiffened and swore.
The man held up his hands. “Whoa . . . Devon, it—it’s all right. It’s me.” He spoke excitedly. “Do you recognize me?”
Devon slid his chair back a few feet. “Who are you?”
“It’s all right; it’s all right.” The guy leaned forward. “It’s me, Conner. Conner Hayden.”
Devon shook his head. He couldn’t believe that he was seeing this face. “I don’t . . . I don’t believe you.”
“It’s crazy, I know. But it was real. That night. The night you got shot. Everything you experienced. It was all real.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Listen to me.” The guy wouldn’t quit. “Just listen to me. I was having a heart attack that night. At the same time that you were shot. We were both dying at the same time. We both had the same experience. But we didn’t know what was happening.”
“Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?” This had to be some kind of trick. Maybe this was the guy who’d shot them. Who’d killed Terrell. Devon slid his chair back farther. “What do you want?”
Conner went on. “And you remember Helen and Mitch? They were real too. Mitch is in a hospital up in Winthrop Harbor. He got in an accident on his motorcycle that same night. He’s been in a coma for the last two months. I swear it’s all true!”
But Devon was shutting down. This was too crazy. They were doing something to him. Playing some kind of game with him. Maybe trying to get to him. He stood and backed away. “Just stay away from me, you hear me? Stay away!”
“Devon, please. Give me a chance to prove it to you. You don’t know the whole story. You don’t know what was really going on. I can help you.”
Devon turned and pounded on the conference room door. “Get me outta here!”
The guard unlocked the door and poked his head inside.
Devon pointed back at Conner. “Dude’s crazy. I don’t wanna talk to him.”
The guard glanced from Devon to Conner and back to Devon.
Conner knocked against the glass. “Devon, I just want to try to help you,” he said. “I can help you.”
But Devon shook his head. “I’m done here. Let me out.”
They brought him back to his room, where he sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. Snatches of memories raced through his head, like he was standing in the middle of a busy street with cars flying past on either side and he could only catch glimpses of their occupants. Fleeting images and voices. Some of them terrifying. A lake and a farm. A gray sky. Mist rolling in from a forest.
He could almost hear the whispering again. Words he couldn’t understand. He stood and peered into the mirror. One half reflected his own harried countenance. But the other…
Someone was standing behind him!
Devon spun around. The tiny room was empty. He shot a glance to the mirror again. It was empty now too. But he knew what he’d seen. A tall, gaunt man. Long black hair. Dressed in an old overcoat and dirty trousers. Like a vagrant. Yellow eyes, glowing. Brown teeth, grinning at him.
Devon’s heart thudded against his ribs. He’d seen the guy before!
A door has been opened, Devon.…
Devon felt the words inside his head. But they weren’t his thoughts. It was as if someone else were in the room with him. He peered at the mirror, but his reflection looked strange somehow. His eyes were empty. Solid white. Void of any life or soul, they gazed back at him from a face that felt familiar but looked completely alien.
Devon leaned closer.
The image in the mirror mimicked his movement. But a smirk was spreading across its face.
Devon froze, unable to look away. His reflection grinned at him, lips peeled back. Jaws opened. Black saliva, like ink, dripped from rows of pointed teeth.
A door you can’t close.
The image in the mirror lunged forward and Devon fell back onto the floor.
5
MITCH STARED AT THE STRANGER. The bookstore was silent except for their breathing. Finally Mitch said, “Get away? From who? Howard?”
The stranger nodded. “Yes. Howard. And that farm. You need to leave. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Not supposed to be here? Where? Indiana?”
“You’re not in Indiana, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend, pal. You don’t even know me.” Mitch struggled to regain his composure. “What say we start with your name.”
The stranger glanced around the bookstore as if making sure they were alone. Then he said in a low tone, “You can call me Nathan.”
“Nathan, huh.” Mitch put his hands on his hips. “Where exactly are you from, and how do you know me?”
Nathan moved to the front windows and peered outside. “That’s not important right now. What is important is that you believe me. You need to leave. The longer you stay on that farm, the harder it’s going to be for you to get back.”
“Get back?” Mitch said. “Back where?”
“Back where you came from.”
Mitch’s jaw tightened. “Dude,” he said through his teeth, “you’re about five seconds away from tasting my fist. You better start making sense.”
Nathan turned back to Mitch, a spark of anger flashing in his eyes. He leaned into Mitch’s face and hissed in staccato beats, “You. Are not. Supposed to be here!” He pointed out the window. “Not on that farm. Not in Indiana. Not anywhere here!”
“Fine.” Mitch backed up. “Where am I supposed to be?”
“He’s trying to keep you here,” Nathan went on, ignoring Mitch’s question. “He overstepped his bounds, and he knows it. But the longer you stay, the harder it’s going to be for you to leave.”
“Overstepped what bounds? What are you talking about?”
Nathan rubbed his eyes. “You really don’t have a clue where you are?”
Mitch was getting tired of the circular conversation. “If this isn’t Indiana, why don’t you enlighten me?”
Nathan looked around the store a moment and then motioned for Mitch to follow him. “C’mon.”
The guy was searching for something on the walls. He wasn’t looking for books, just shaking his head and muttering to himself. Mitch followed to the back of the store, where Nathan slid a big, gray shelving unit away, exposing a section of bare wall space. He stepped back and looked it over, as if sizing it up for something. Then he produced a small object from his pocket and held it up for Mitch to see. It was a piece of chalk. A thick blue stalk, three or four inches long, like the kind kids used to draw on sidewalks.
Mitch shrugged. “What?”
“You seen any strange things the last few years?”
“One of ’em right now.”
“Funny,” Nathan grunted. “I mean hallucinations. People . . . weird stuff. Stuff you can’t explain. Stuff from your past, maybe? Old memories?”
“Maybe,” Mitch said. “What about it?”
Nathan pointed around the room. “This place can take your memories and bring them to life. Your thoughts, nightmares. Your worst fears can take on a life of their own. It can give them form and substance.”
“Dude, the aliens are doing that. They love to mess with our heads.”
“Yeah, right. Aliens. But you’ve seen it, right? You’ve seen stuff you can’t explain?”
Mitch shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Well, I bet you haven’t seen this yet.” Nathan proceeded to draw a large circle on the wall with the chalk. About three feet in diameter. Then he stood back.
Mitch stared at it, waiting for something to happen. After a few seconds he raised an eyebrow. “And . . .”
“Shh.” Nathan held up a hand and listened.
Then Mitch could hear a soft hissing sound. Wisps of smoke began wafting out from the chalk line. It looked to Mitch almost as if the chalk dust was burning its way through the drywall. He frowned. “What’s that?”
The hissing grew louder, and soon smoke was
pouring out along the entire perimeter of the circle. After several seconds it seemed to stop. Nathan put his sunglasses back on and smashed his fist into the center of the circle. The drywall cracked and crumbled away.
Shafts of intense white light sliced through the cracks in the wall. Mitch swore and stepped back, covering his eyes. Nathan pulled the pieces away, and more light shot through the swirls of smoke that lingered in the air.
Mitch could barely see anything. “What is it?”
“Here.” Nathan nudged Mitch’s arm, holding out another pair of sunglasses.
Mitch could barely see them but managed to slip them on. They blocked the light a bit, enough for him to see a glowing, rippling surface beyond the drywall. It looked like water. Like the surface of a swimming pool standing vertically behind the wall. Defying gravity.
Mitch stared at it, his breath gone. “What . . . what is that?”
“A window,” Nathan said. “Just a window. Can you see anything?”
Mitch hesitated; then, drawn by sheer curiosity, he leaned closer. At first he couldn’t see anything through the rippling surface. He held out his hand but couldn’t feel any heat coming from it. He touched it with the tip of his finger. It felt like solid ice, though it seemed to move like liquid. But his finger couldn’t penetrate the surface.
“It’s cold,” he said. His voice was barely a whisper. “Freezing.” He peered at the glowing surface. “I . . . I can’t see anything.”
“Look closer.”
Mitch squinted. He thought he could see something beyond the watery surface. A series of dark blotches, distorted by the waves. But he couldn’t make out what they were. He continued to gaze through the hole and eventually the images began to congeal, to form a picture. An entire scene was taking shape.
6
CONNER PAUSED OUTSIDE the main entrance to the detention facility, mentally kicking himself. He had been too eager. He had spent the last two months tracking Devon down through the court system, waiting for the right chance to see him. And now he had blown it by just blundering in like that. He had shocked the kid. He should have made the initial contact by phone, but something inside him wanted to have the first meeting face-to-face. He should have known better. Conner shook his head. He wasn’t thinking straight anymore. He should have known better.