by Jack Kilborn
That’s when someone pounded on the door.
The sound paralyzed Mal, adrenaline ripping through his body making his heart seem ready to pop. But his arms and legs locked as surely as if they’d been bound there.
He couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
After the initial startle, his mind went haywire with possibilities. Who would be at the door at 3am? Had those terrible people from the Rushmore Inn finally found him? Had they come to finish the job?
Unable to suck in any air, unable to turn his head, Mal’s eyes flicked over to Deb and saw she was similarly frightened stiff.
A second ticked by.
Another.
I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to—
The pounding sound came again, even louder, a white hot spike of adrenaline snapping Mal out of his catatonia. He immediately jerked upright in bed, reaching for his nightstand, for the 9mm inside the drawer. But in his fear and haste he reached with the wrong hand, the one missing above the wrist. He quickly switched, pulling out the gun, as Deb clambered for her artificial legs, propped next to the wall.
She squeaked out, “Do you think it’s—”
“Shh.”
Holding his breath, Mal strained to hear more sounds. He wondered, fleetingly, if this was one of his frequent nightmares. But they always revolved around him being strapped to the table, watching those horrid videos. He was always at the Rushmore in his bad dreams. He’d never had a nightmare that took place in his house.
This wasn’t a dream.
This was really happening.
He quickly switched his thoughts to other, safer possibilities. A drunk neighbor, mistaking their house for his. Local teenagers, pranking people by knocking on the door then running away. A relative, maybe his brother from Florida, dropping by unannounced. Police, coming over to tell Mal he’d left the headlights on in the car parked in the driveway.
Anything other than them…
Deb was trembling so badly she couldn’t get her legs on.
“Mal… help me…”
But for Mal to help, he had to drop the 9mm—he only had one hand. And he didn’t think he’d be able to let go of it, even if he tried.
“Mal…”
“Deb, I…”
Then the phone rang.
Deb screamed at the sound, and Mal felt his bladder clench. He looked at the gun, clutched in his trembling fist.
If it is them, I know what to do.
Deb first. One in the temple while she’s looking away.
Then me.
Because there is no way in hell they’re taking us back there.
Grand Haven, Michigan
Sara
Something awoke Sara Randhurst from deep, intoxicated sleep.
She peeked an eye open, confused, her bleary eyes focusing on the clock radio next to the bed.
3:15am.
Without thinking, she grabbed the glass next to it, raising her head and gulping down the melted ice, savoring the faint flavor of Southern Comfort.
Okay. Focus, Sara. Why am I awake?
She had no idea. In fact, she had no memory of how she’d gotten into bed. The very last thing she remembered was…
Was what?
FedEx. The damned letter from the bank. Then opening up the bottle and crawling inside.
She snorted.
Sure. Blame the bank. As if I need another excuse to drink.
A banging sound startled Sara, making her yelp.
The door.
Who could be at the door?
She thought, fleetingly, about the letter. Could they be kicking her out now? In the middle of the night? Weren’t there laws against that?
Sara immediately dismissed the idea. Tipsy as she still was, she knew banks didn’t foreclose at three in the morning.
That left… who?
Sara had no family that would be visiting. The only people who still cared about her, Tyrone and Cindy, had moved to LA years ago. The last contact she’d had with them had been a Christmas card this past year. Or maybe the year before. The holidays all blended together.
Another knock. Loud and urgent.
Sara flipped on the bedroom light. Her eyes were automatically drawn to Jack’s empty crib in the corner of the bedroom, a blanket draped over the top because she couldn’t bear to look at it. At the same time couldn’t bear to throw it away. The blanket looked like a shroud.
Then she searched around for the bottle of SoCo, hoping she’d brought it into the bedroom with her. Sara found it, on the floor.
Empty.
Shit. That was the last one.
One more bang on the door. The big bad wolf, trying to blow the house down. Or in this case, the trailer.
Fuck him. There were scarier things than wolves.
Much scarier things.
Sara pawed at the nightstand drawer, pulling it open, digging through magazines for the snub nosed .38 she kept there. A gift from Tyrone. Not registered, but it wasn’t like she could get into any more trouble than she already was in.
But the gun wasn’t there. Sara had a fleeting recollection of being at the kitchen table, crying and drunk, the gun in her mouth.
Shit. I left it in the kitchenette.
Funny, how she routinely contemplated suicide, yet now that her life might actually be threatened she wanted the gun for protection.
Maybe she had some fight in her after all.
Sara gripped the bottle by the neck, holding it like a club, and eased her feet out of bed. She stood up, wobbly, but a pro at walking under the influence. Two steps and she was to the bedroom door. Two more and she was next to the bathroom.
Movement, to her right, and Sara screamed and swung, the bottle connecting with the mirror hanging on the bathroom door.
It spiderwebbed with a tinkling crunch, and Sara saw herself in a dozen different triangles, hair wild, eyes red, wearing a dirty sweatshirt crusted with old shrimp chow mien that she’s apparently eaten while drunk. Once upon a time, she’d been clean and pretty. Looking at herself now, Sara guessed homeless shelters would turn her away for being too gross.
Another knock, so close it felt like a full-body blow. The SoCo bottle had survived the impact with the mirror, and she clutched the neck even tighter as she made her decision.
There is no way in hell I’m answering that door.
Instead she backed away, turning in the other direction, heading for the phone on the wall. Right before she snatched up the receiver, it rang.
Sara stared, the lump in her throat making it impossible to draw a breath. She remembered the fear she’d felt on the island, and the same sick, familiar feeling spread over her.
Terror.
Pure, paralyzing terror.
Hand shaking so badly it looked like a palsy, Sara’s finger hovered over the speakerphone button.
The phone rang again, making her whimper.
Do I press it?
Do I?
She jabbed at it, hitting the wrong key. Then she tried again.
The speakerphone hissed at her, and a deep male voice barked, “Open the door, Sara.”
Sara wet her sweatpants.
Mililani, Hawaii
Josh
Josh VanCamp gasped, drawing air through his mouth because a tiny hand was pinching his nose closed.
He opened his eyes, staring at the capuchin monkey sitting on his chest. Josh brushed the primate’s paw away from his face.
“Mathison, what are—”
The monkey put a finger over Josh’s mouth, telling him to be quiet. A moment later, Woof began to bark.
His warning bark. Strangers were near.
“Someone’s here,” Josh said.
The monkey nodded. Josh glanced at his wife, lying next to him. “Fran?”
“I’m up.”
She was already swinging her legs out of the bed, pressing the intercom button on the wall.
“Duncan,” she said, “panic room. Grab Woof.”
; Her son responded instantly. “Meet you there.”
Josh placed Mathison on his shoulder, and the monkey pulled Josh’s hoodie around him. He was frightened.
Josh wasn’t. He had too much to do.
He slipped on the boat shoes he kept next to the bed—thick leather and tough rubber soles—and reached for the closet door.
“Hon?” he asked.
“Ready.”
Josh reached inside, grabbing one of the Browning Maxus autoloader shotguns, tossing it over his shoulder like they’d practiced so many times, not bothering to see if his wife caught it as he reached for its companion.
They walked the hallway in standard two-by-two cover formation, Josh favoring the left, Fran the right. The air conditioning kicked on, normal for nighttime in Hawaii. Other than that the house was quiet. Still.
Josh passed one of the burglar alarm panels, not bothering to punch in and access surveillance, confident the animals’ senses were good reason enough to get into the panic room. Since they’d moved here five years previous, the monkey and dog had had far fewer false alarms than the ten thousand dollar system they’d installed. If this turned out to be another, no harm in it. They were due for a late night drill later in the week anyway.
Depending on your past, one man’s paranoia was another man’s common sense. And after what the trio had lived through in Safe Haven, Wisconsin, Josh couldn’t think of a single thing they’d done to keep themselves safe that qualified as paranoia.
They reached the door, and Josh stared at the fake light switch. In the up position, meaning Duncan was already inside. He swiveled the switch to the right and punched in the numeric code on the revealed keypad. The door latch snicked opened, and Fran went down the stairs first, Josh locking and sealing the door behind him, tight as a bank vault.
Basements were rare on the Big Island. Blasting through the solid rock was difficult, and deemed foolhardy in light of the constant threat of storms. But Josh’s basement had its own industrial sump pump that protected against flooding, run by its own generator that worked separate from the main grid.
Josh followed Fran into the equipment room. Duncan was standing at the ready, a Glock 13 in his hand and pointed downward. He had the same angular features as Fran, same eyes, but he was growing into his masculinity and had been letting the peach fuzz on his upper lip accumulate even though they’d given him a Norelco for Christmas. Like his mother, his expression was hard, but without fear. Even though Josh was only a father by marriage, he beamed with pride at Duncan’s resolve. The kid had gone through hell, and had come out the other side stronger.
Woof, their fat beagle, looked up at them, tongue out, tail wagging. Mathison hopped off of Josh’s shoulder and sprang onto the dog’s back, like a miniature jockey.
Duncan already had the monitors live, and the perimeter sensors had switched on Camera 2. The front porch. They watched as two men in suits knocked on the door. Caucasian, mid-thirties, ties and sport coats too formal for the humidity.
“They’re holding,” Fran said, touching the screen, tapping the weapon bulges in their jackets.
Josh studied their footwear. Combat boots, incongruous to the tailored suits.
“Military?” Duncan asked.
The haircuts certainly were, which wasn’t a good omen.
“Smart guess. Or maybe they’re private. Or…”
Josh almost added, “something else” but he knew there was no need. His family was already thinking it.
He hit the camera’s microphone switch. The equipment room filled with the loud mating call of the coqui tree frog, which sounded a lot like digital beeping. Beneath that cacophony, katydids and crickets, and the far off screech and hoot of a barn owl.
“What next?” Duncan asked.
A fair question. In all their drills, they’d never prepared for someone knocking at the door at 3am.
“Now I press a button,” Josh said, “open up the trap door that sends them into the alligator pit.”
Duncan stared at Josh, his teenaged face confused. He rolled his eyes when he realized his stepfather was kidding. Again, Josh felt a stab of pride. Duncan could have been freaking out, but he understood how safe they were in the panic room. If needed, they could stay down there for a week. They had food and water, bunk beds, a toilet, a TV, and a computer. When they’d first built the room they’d slept down there as a family for several nights, making a party out of it so Duncan got used to the space. Popcorn and staying up late, watching movies and playing videogames. A safe area, not a scary one.
But his son’s question was on the money. If they’d been under attack—a highly conceivable possibility considering their past—the next step would be to call the police, followed by the Feds. If that didn’t produce the desired results, the media was next.
So far, the VanCamps had lived up to their part of the deal and kept silent. If threatened, Josh had memorized all the numbers for all the major news outlets on the Big Island. He could burn several key people if forced to.
Josh didn’t want it to come to that. He and Fran had talked long and hard about bringing down those responsible for the genocide at Safe Haven, but in the end they opted to stay quiet for Duncan’s sake. If they told the press what they knew, there would be reprisals.
He stared at the two men on the monitor. Is that what this was? A team sent to silence them? If so, why were they knocking on the front door? Why not an entire commando team? Or an airstrike to take out the whole house?
None of the other monitors were live, meaning the proximity cameras hadn’t been tripped. Josh fired them up anyway to take a look.
No armed killers on the property.
No one at all.
Just the two guys on the front porch.
“I guess we ask them what they want,” Fran said.
Josh looked at his wife, saw that strength in her eyes he admired so much. Someone else might have been hysterical at this point. Crying or catatonic or ranting in fear. And he wouldn’t have blamed her if she reacted that way. But Fran was a rock, in many ways stronger than he was, and the love he felt for her right then gave him strength as well.
Josh hit the intercom button.
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Frank
Dr. Frank Belgium yawned, needing sleep. He was grading an assignment, trying to figure out how this student had gotten into advanced biology. The paper had something to do with the ozone layer and photosynthesis. But the experiment made no sense, and the conclusions were unfounded and in several cases outright fabrication.
Belgium took one of the student’s paragraphs and typed it verbatim into Google. After checking the results, he tried several more times with other sections.
“Dumb dumb dumb.”
The student had plagiarized published experiments. And to disguise his cheating, he’d mixed and matched several different papers, without any apparent logic or reason.
Belgium printed the Google file, stapled the pages to the paper, and wrote F on the top, along with, Scientists cite their sources. They also try to make sense.
He was about to move onto the next paper, but stopped himself and added, How did you get into advanced biology?
It was a fair question. But as he stared at his handwritten words, Belgium wondered, And how did I wind up teaching advanced biology?
A combination of bad decisions and bad luck. But it was better than many alternatives—
something Frank knew all about. And being a biology professor at a state college still allowed him to do some genetic research. Not nearly on the same level as he used to, but enough to keep his mind active and hands nimble.
He frowned at the title of the next paper, Plants’ Reactions to Household Chemicals, and was ready to delve in when someone knocked at the door.
Oh, Jesus. He’s found me.
Belgium thought about the gun he’d always meant to buy, the one he’d use to shoot himself if the past ever came calling. But he’d been afraid to buy the gun. Just as
well, because as frightened as he was right now, he’d be just as afraid to use it on himself.
It had been a while since he’d had to confront this particular fear. There had been nightmares, of course. Plenty of them since leaving Samhain. He hadn’t spoken with his friends, Sun and Andy, since their wedding last March, and those were the only people he could talk to about their shared, terrifying experience. Because if he did mention it to anyone else, he’d be shot for treason.
Maybe that was the solution. If evil was at the door, Belgium could call the newspapers, spill everything, and then the US government would kill him. But the government was inefficient, bordering on inept, and would probably take days or weeks to get the job done. In the meantime, he’d be going through all sorts of unimaginable hell. Which made Belgium wonder, for the umpteenth time, why he hadn’t ever manned up and just bought a damned gun.
“Dr. Belgium! Dr. Frank Belgium! It’s the Secret Service.”
Belgium’s fear of demons vanished. But another fear climbed into its place. If this was the Secret Service, there could be only one reason they would call on him.
“The doctor isn’t here,” he called, trying to disguise his voice and make it sound lower. Which, in hindsight, was silly, because they didn’t know what he sounded like in the first place. “I am his his his… lover.” Belgium’s eyes cast around his desk, looking for a suitable name. He found it on his computer monitor, the logo. “His lover, Vizio. Why are you bothering me at such an hour?”
“If you don’t open the door, Doctor, we will break in.”
Belgium shuddered. He didn’t want to go anywhere with the Secret Service, because it wouldn’t be anywhere pleasant. And how could he be sure it was the Secret Service at all? The evil that Belgium had confronted in the past was wily.
“I am Vizio,” he said, lamely. “The Doctor is out of the country at a biology symposium. I I I am staying here to water his plants.”
The door busted inward.
Belgium gasped.
He was right.
It wasn’t the Secret Service.