by Brian Hodge
"Oh Jesus," he said.
"I don't think you killed him," she said. She was looking out the back window. "The other monk's helping him up. Must have just grazed him."
She was a cool one, he had to admit. She hadn't screamed when he struck the monk, hadn't gotten excited. He liked that.
The speedometer hit ninety as the truck roared out of the parking lot and down the road, flinging gravel out from under its tires. A long plume of dust spewed upward behind. He pressed the accelerator down, and the speedometer edged upward. Ninety-three. Nine-five. Wavered. Then one hundred.
He risked a glance sideways. The wind streamed in through the open window, blowing her blonde hair across her face, but she was calm, not scared like many women—and men—were at high speeds. He checked the rearview mirror. So far no one was following. Good. At least they had a head start. Maybe they could get back to Albuquerque and lose anyone who might be following them.
Probably right now someone was on the phone to the Mayor, or whoever was responsible, and was telling him the girl had been sprung.
The wind screamed past them, and the woman rolled up the window on her side. He didn't dare take one hand off the wheel. Not at this speed. Not on this road. The truck hit a pothole, reared up, and the wheel threatened to jerk out of his hands. He clamped his fingers tightly on the hot plastic, grimaced, and wrenched the truck to the right and out of the hole.
"Do you want to explain now?" she asked, once the truck was under control again. She was slightly amused, and he grinned.
"Sure. I owe you that much. My name is Chato Del-Klinne. Bear with me—it's a strange story. Just a few days ago I was walking through the mountains and found. some dead people." He proceeded to tell her everything that had happened. And he told her how he'd come to hear about her and how he'd figured out where she was being held.
"I was determined to get you out," he concluded.
"Why?" She was genuinely curious.
"Because I've seen the shadow creatures, too." He sensed, rather than saw, her shudder.
"Please."
"Is that what you saw?"
"Yes. They were … horrible."
"How did you escape?"
"I woke up and saw their eyes. I managed to roll down the slope just as they … they crept out of the bushes." Her voice broke momentarily, and it was the first time he heard emotion in it. "I ran then, ran for what seemed like miles and miles. I must have tripped somewhere along the way and hit my head on a rock. The next morning I woke up and there were some policemen standing around me. They told me I'd been found by a passing motorist and that everything was all right, and then I was brought back there."
"Do you know what you saw?" he asked.
"Our guide, Junior Montoya, said—"
"Wait a minute." His voice was sharp. "Junior Montoya? Was he sort of elderly, greasy looking, with bad teeth?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
He laughed shortly. "Not precisely. I met him, though, the first day I drove into Albuquerque. He was acting weird then, but I didn't really think anything of it. Go on. Sorry for the interruption."
"He said there was a pueblo nearby that was haunted. I asked if there were ghosts there, and he said it was haunted by something worse than ghosts. He said they were Indian spirits. And that the pueblo was built by a people dead before Coronado came through. And that the spirits were evil. I found that out." There was nothing in her voice now, and he knew she was thinking of what she had seen. He had never seen an attack, only the aftermath.
The pueblo again. And the spirits.
They were silent for a few miles, and then: "You know," he said, trying to break some of the heaviness inside the truck, "I don't know your name. And here I've gone and rescued you. Some fine knight I'd make."
"Sunny Mae Foster. Isn't that terrible? They call me Sunny, though. From Lubbock."
He didn't think she sounded a bit Texan, but he didn't say so. And he also thought she was very pretty, from the small glimpses he'd gotten. Mostly he hadn't had time to look at her.
"What now, Chato?"
"There's a common element to both our stories."
"Junior Montoya."
"That's right." He braked as they approached the highway back into town. "I think our next step should be to find him. Wherever he is."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Laura watched as the orange and yellow balloon lifted away from the trees. For a few minutes she thought it would crash, but then the pilot seemed to get control again, and the balloon rose.
She didn't really care much for balloons, certainly wasn't the ballooning fanatic that so many people in Albuquerque were. She liked them only inasmuch as they were newsworthy. If the pilot had crashed, that would have been news, much like the time a few years before when some out-of-state balloonists had decided to try to fly over the Sandia Mountains. Any local balloonist would have warned them about the quirky air currents by the mountains and told them it was sheer folly, but the balloonists hadn't bothered to consult any of the natives. So they'd made their attempt. And they'd all died as a result. The first fatalities at the Balloon Fiesta, although it hadn't been a Fiesta-sanctioned activity. That had been news.
She lost interest in the balloon, which was now headed back to the picnic grounds, and strolled once more toward a refreshment table for another tequila sunrise. It was her third; she had a slight headache, and she didn't give a damn.
So what the hell was she supposed to do now?
The sun was setting, and she could smell the piñon wood in the barbecue pits. Dinner should be ready any time now. She'd have to leave around eight to get back to the office in time to write up her account, and she still didn't have an interview with Kent. She had a story, sure, but her damned editor wouldn't run it. He'd just refuse to print it, the way he did with the other one. Damn him. Briefly, as she glanced at the mountains, more shadows on them now than earlier, she wondered where Chato was, then decided she really didn't care.
Damn him, too.
Damn Kent.
Damn all of them.
She looked down at the glass in her hand. She had finished her drink already. She got another one and sipped it, the soft warmth spreading through her. She brushed by a short, dumpy woman, her bright red hair obviously dyed, almost knocked the flaming redhead's drink out of her hand, apologized curtly and kept on going.
Had to get control of herself. There was nothing worse than a drunken woman. Wasn't that what men always said? Damn Kent and his little remark about her being liberated. Probably thought he was being cute.
She heard the hissing of a burner overhead and looked up. That dumb balloonist was heading straight for one of the refreshment tables. Why didn't he lift the silly thing up? She raised her glass to her mouth, then paused, not drinking. Had she seen something move along the edge of the gondola? It wasn't the pilot. At least it didn't look like him. In fact, where was he?
She swallowed a large mouthful of her drink and shivered, but not from the ice-cold liquor.
The something.
No. It wasn't like that at all. It couldn't be.
Others around her had become concerned about the rapidly descending balloon, and some of them were shouting at the balloonist.
"Get up! Get up! You're coming down in a crowd! Watch out!"
"Hey, Martin," a man dressed all in western garb shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth, "what the fuck are you doing?"
"He's in trouble," a woman with iron grey hair said to Laura. The front of her black dress was covered with twenty or more strands of silver heishi jewelry. She touched Laura on the arm. "I've been to every one of the Fiestas, and I know trouble when I see it. Oh, my goodness."
Laura's news interest was piqued now, and she knew she should get closer to what was going on, but something kept her in place. As the gondola dropped closer and closer to the ground, Laura stared. Her fingers numb, the glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the ground.
"Oh my," the matr
on said, concerned.
Laura's stockings and shoes had been splashed with the liquor, but she didn't notice. She watched as the shadows clambered up from the inside of the gondola, and she felt the shriek rising inside her.
"Get out, get going," she said, grabbing and shaking the woman's arm. A turquoise nugget on one of the woman's numerous bracelets cut into her hand, drawing blood.
"What?" Her companion was startled.
"Run for your life!"
Four men, obviously the ground crew for the balloonist, had started toward the balloon.
They had to be warned. They had to know. Before it was too late.
"Leave him alone!" Laura shouted, trying to be heard over all the noise. "Get away!" But the band was still playing, and no one, except the old woman next to her, heard. No one.
Oh God, she couldn't watch. Couldn't stay here … not when—
They leaped from the basket, flinging themselves on the ground crew. The men shrieked as they fell to the ground, writhing, clutching at the shades that covered their faces and necks. Some of the people standing nearby to watch the balloon's descent heard the men scream, realized something was wrong, and they turned, but by that time there was nothing they could do.
It was too late.
Too late for all of them, Laura thought.
The balloon landed; the gondola, fell over, and the great expanse of nylon collapsed. Flames shot up as the burner ignited the material.
Shadows spread across the ground; stretching outward in an ever-expanding ritg of darkness, lapping at the feet of the observers. Men and women alike screamed as the creatures touched them. Laura felt the surge of evil from the things on the ground, expanding, coiling, reaching, and her stomach turned. She backed slowly away from the horrors in front of her without looking behind her, kept moving until her back hit something. She screamed, groped, found the side of a portable toilet. She pressed herself against it, and stared ahead.
Now she was rooted to the ground. She couldn't flee, even though she knew she might die. All she could do was watch, and cry.
The burning balloon ignited the ground covering, and flames burst outward in all directions, radiating rapidly away from the original fire. Between the columns of flames and smoke, she saw the shades as they stalked and attacked the people.
The older woman who had talked to her had finally fled, screaming, but she tripped over a prone figure, its eyes torn out, and tumbled to the ground. As she struggled to get to her feet, the shadows reached her, touched her. Her screams cut off abruptly as her body disappeared under the shadows.
By the pavilion Eagleton Haas was beating at something in front of him with a chair. His pants leg was torn, and she saw blood streaming from a terrible gash. Darkness reached out to him, pulled him inside, and he cried out once.
The red-haired woman, her hands gone, ran past, shaking her bloodied stumps in front of her. The creatures, their yellow eyes intent, pursued at her heels.
Nearby the country-western singer sprawled, as though drunk. His flesh had been peeled from his chest, and there a handful of the creatures feasted.
Stumbling toward her was a man on fire. A hot, stinging, bitter taste rose in her throat as she recognized him. It was Douglas Griffen. His eyes were mad, and clinging to his legs, oblivious to the flames, shadows gnawed on his bared flesh even as he tried to escape them.
He saw her, stretched out a charred arm in petition, its sparks flying outward, and tried to call to her. The sound was a hideous shriek. Blood spurted outward as flames hissed, and he collapsed face down, not more than a dozen feet from her. The shadows swarmed over him, fire shooting up between them.
She clapped her hands to her nose and mouth, tried not to vomit. The odor of burning flesh assailed her nostrils, matted her hair, coated her skin, filled her with nausea. She struggled to free herself from her lassitude.
She had to get out.
She had to live.
She couldn't see Kent, didn't know if he'd escaped. Didn't care now. Cries of terrible agony filled the evening air, and she heard a few cars starting up. Someone must be escaping, getting out, and she knew she had to get there, had to find someone to help her.
Everywhere she looked she saw the spreading flames, punctuated by the yellow eyes, the evil eyes she had seen before, and they were staring at her now, as if noticing her for the first time. They were coming after her. Slowly moving toward her. They knew she had escaped them once before. Knew she would not again.
Sobbing, Laura turned and ran, tripped over a tiny child curled in death. Her knees almost brushed the ground as she began to fall. She managed to push herself up with her fingertips, scraping the skin from them, got her balance and kept going.
She knew they were behind her, close, too close. The creatures of hell. The things with the sharp teeth and the sharp talons, and those horrible eyes. Those hating eyes that stared and ate her soul. She stumbled toward the parking lot.
Just as she reached it, a gust of wind swept flames toward the front line of cars. The gas tank of the closest car ignited and it exploded, sending metal flying hundreds of yards away. The fire leaped from car to car, one explosion following another. One of the cars just pulling out stopped, and the driver stared mesmerized at the scene in front of him. She tried to yell at him, tried to warn him, but he didn't hear. Flames touched the car, then it was gone in a burst of fire.
She watched as the cars went one by one. Oh God. She couldn't get out. She was doomed. They were going to kill her. Strip her flesh. Eat her. Before she was dead. Oh God.
No. She wouldn't let them.
Still they came toward her, those horrible shades. Sliding across the ground, through the flames, the gasoline, beckoning they came.
Dazed, she stumbled toward them, then stopped, remembering what Chato had said about them. With a great effort she turned, and ran—ran for her life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The sunlight was rapidly fading from the sky, the heat retreating with it, and on Central the neon lights over the bars and motels and adult bookstores and hockshops came on, casting a garish gleam on the otherwise undistinguished street. Up and down the street car headlights glimmered in the greyness of the dusk.
He put the truck's lights on, changed lanes and glanced sideways at his companion. She was staring out the window, watching an elderly man and woman walk into Goody's restaurant.
They hadn't talked much since coming into town. They had passed the house-trailer sales lots, the crumbling restaurants, the used car lots of East Central without saying a word, and it was only when they were getting close to the University area that he decided that their best place to look for Junior would be in the bars downtown.
It was a Friday night, and the places would be crowded.
They might have a hard time finding the old man … unless he wanted to be found.
"You know," she said, her soft voice breaking into his thoughts, "it's almost as if Montoya knew what was going to happen that night. He had to. I can't believe it was just coincidence that he left ahead of time."
"Yeah. It struck me that way, too. And that means those creatures don't always attack and kill humans. Somewhat encouraging."
"Somewhat."
They were now parallel to the University. The main parking lot, adjacent to Yale Park, was empty of cars: Usually on a night like this it filled rapidly for a concert at Popejoy and Keller Halls or for some athletic event at Johnson Gym. But now people were afraid; they were staying home, he thought. Another siren wailed in the distance, and he could see a flashing red light up Central. They'd heard a lot of sirens since getting back into the city, and there had been a yellowish glow to the north. Some fire, he thought, and dismissed it.
"You know, Sunny, when we go looking for this old guy, well—" he paused to look sideways and saw her profile outlined from the lights in the park—"I mean, it could get pretty rough. And those guys there are going to stare at you. There will be a lot of rude comments made as well,
I'm sure."
"I've been stared at before." He could hear the amusement in her voice, and it puzzled him. "I would think you might be worried too, Chato. They won't take kindly to an Indian being there."
"Yeah, I've been thinking about that. But there are several bars where the clientele is more Indian than anything, and Junior said he was a half-breed. It's a long shot, but we might give it a go there first."
"I'm game."
Again he heard the amusement.
"What do you do in Lubbock?" he asked, suddenly curious to hear more of her voice. Since he'd rescued her, he'd learned virtually nothing about her beyond her name and where she came from. Curiosity was only natural. And he hadn't seen a ring on her left hand.
"I'm in public relations. The personnel department." He could see her smiling now.
"Oh. With a company?" He was beginning to get an idea of what she did, at least of what he thought she did.
"You might say that. It's very small, though. Not many employees. The wages are just dandy, however."
She laughed aloud then, a rich laugh that he liked. She didn't go on, and her silence confirmed his guess.
He lifted his foot from the gas pedal, aware that the needle had inched over forty-five and that they were in a thirty-five zone. Hurry, hurry, hurry, came that inside whisper. I am! he cried, silently, and only laughter responded.
"I was a professor of geology at the University."
"Is that so?"
He couldn't tell if she were serious.
"I quit a few years ago. Felt a little out of place. Wanted to roam around, find myself, as they used to say."
"Did you?"
"I guess."
"Do you enjoy what you do?"