From Darkness Comes: The Horror Box Set (8 Book Collection)

by J. Thorn

  Finch was surprised that the shot hadn't drawn the family out of the cabin, or from wherever they were hiding. He'd fully expected to see dark shadows springing up and screaming, armed with axes or knives as they charged at Beau, intent on taking him down for killing one of their kin.

  But there was no sign of anyone, and now even Beau had disappeared.

  Reminding himself that time was not a luxury he could afford to squander, he kept low and darted to the left, toward the thick crowd of pines, his eyes flitting from one imagined shape to the next, waiting for one of them to break free and come at him. But he made it into the thick of them unchallenged, and paused to catch his breath, the Glock raised in front of him, his body pressed against the trunk of a pine sticky with sap. His breathing sounded like a bellows, and he imagined at any second someone would hear it and come find him. His heart pounded so hard in his chest his whole body vibrated. Let them come, he thought. He shut his mouth, drew short breaths through his nose, felt his limbs quiver with adrenaline. He estimated the distance to the cabin was less than a hundred yards from where he stood, but it would take him longer as he would have to approach it slowly, and with as little noise as possible. The darkness in the field had been nothing compared to the cloying, impenetrable blackness in the woods. He told himself that such poor visibility worked both for and against him. On the one hand, he couldn't see a damn thing, but then it was unlikely anyone else could either, and he at least had the NV binoculars so he could watch them from a distance if it came to it. It didn't, however, help at close quarters, and he cursed himself for not instructing Beau to buy night vision goggles. It was an oversight he feared they would pay for. Spotting the child on the mountain had been sheer luck. If he'd stayed down, they'd have missed him, but just as Finch was scanning the peak, he rose, and Beau was off and running.

  Too late now, he thought, and said a silent prayer that the luck that had reduced the number of their enemies by one would hold out for a little while longer.

  Counting to three in his head, he steeled himself.

  Stepped out from behind the tree.

  And his legs were torn from under him. He went down fast and hard, twigs and pine needles puncturing his skin, the hand holding the gun bruised by something unyielding beneath the leaves, the other pinned beneath him. Struggling to find his breath, he desperately tried to turn, knowing he would not be able to see his attacker, but willing to take the chance that the shot would find its target.

  The darkness changed.

  Someone hurried away.

  Quickly sitting up and scooting back, Finch leveled the weapon at the unmoving dark, waited a heartbeat, his finger tensing on the trigger...

  ...And felt a punch in his left shoulder. At first he assumed he'd been struck by a fist, or someone's boot, but when he raised his free hand to probe the area, he found a long smooth object protruding from just below his collarbone. Raging pain followed and he winced, aware he did not have the time to spend assessing the damage, but unable to stop himself. The smooth aluminum-like shaft ended in hard feathers. An arrow. Someone had shot an arrow into him, and despite the pain, his skin prickled, every nerve waiting to protest the invasion of another one into his flesh. Abruptly, he felt surrounded, imagined bows being drawn taut, arrow-points aimed at his throat, his heart, his face, and dove behind the nearest trunk, drawing his knees up and pulling at the arrow. It budged only slightly and the pain that came as a result was enough to force him to trap a scream behind his teeth.

  "Shit."

  He heard footsteps. Whoever had shot him had apparently decided that the time for stealth was over and was now coming back to finish him off.

  Finch grabbed the arrow again and yanked on it. His palms were slippery with sweat and slid harmlessly off the shaft, but not without causing him pain. His vision whirled. He closed his eyes. Grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and brought it up, using it to improve his grip as he grabbed the arrow one last time and pulled with all the strength he had in him. With excruciating slowness, it began to slide free. Trembling, he had barely managed to clear the arrow of the wound when the footsteps registered to his right—too close—and he sensed the presence of someone rounding the tree.

  Panicked, slick with blood, Finch dropped the arrow, quickly brought the gun around and loosed off a shot as soon as he detected the presence beside him. The flash from the muzzle blinded him, left the impression of a pale, hollow-eyed face contorted with fury floating before him and then it was gone, the darkness flooding back in, thicker than before. The absence of even a grunt of pain discouraged Finch and he quickly fired again. The bullet whined as it struck the tree opposite. Bark flew.

  A low hum in his ear made Finch turn and duck, but it was not another arrow bound for his skull, only a mosquito drawn by the blood.

  Heart palpitating madly, he frantically searched the night for the shape he'd seen, the malevolent presence that had just a split-second before been right there in front of him. The roaring of his own blood in his ears had deafened him to the man's retreat, if indeed that's what he'd done and was not instead standing on the other side of the same tree Finch was using for protection. He moved, peering around the trunk, his wounded arm hanging uselessly at his side. His left hand felt swollen with blood to the point of bursting. Even as he flexed his fingers and tightened his grip on the Glock, he heard a whistle and ducked back an instant before an arrow sheared through the bark next to his head and impaled the earth by his feet. Finch glanced at it, aware how close he had just come to having his skull ventilated. Then he noticed something. He could see the shaft of the arrow clearly. It was gleaming, reflecting burgeoning silver light. Almost afraid to hope, he raised his head.

  Free of the dark clouds, the moon shone through the thick canopies, limning the branches with silver, and turning the forest floor into a patchwork of light and shadow. Moths rose from the carpet of needles and mounds of deadfall, summoned by the celestial glow. Flies became silver lures calling to larger prey. Finch risked a glance around the tree, ready to withdraw at the sound of another arrow being nocked, and glimpsed a figure ducking behind a trunk not twenty feet away.

  A moment later, he heard a voice. "You ain't walkin' out of here, coyote. More of us than there are've you. Might as well just step right on out and get it over with."

  Finch got to his feet, ensuring the tree was still shielding his body as he rose and extended his arm close to the trunk, aiming his gun in the direction of the voice.

  They now shared the advantage the moon bestowed on them. If either of them moved, the other would see, so for now it was stalemate.

  But stalemate wasted time.

  Finch aimed a shot at the tree, hoping to see the man flinch, or better yet expose enough of himself to give him a clean shot. It didn't happen. His arm like a lead weight hanging from his shoulder, Finch pressed his back to the tree, aware that Beau was out there somewhere, in the cabin most likely, alone or worse, surrounded. The fact that no shot had come from that direction in the last few minutes worried him. But he couldn't move. There was nowhere to go. The man with the bow and arrow was blocking the route back to the vehicle and out of the clearing. If he headed out into the tall grass where there was no cover, he was as good as dead. That left moving toward the cabin and deeper into the trees as his only option and this too would expose him. He realized his relief at the moonlight had been premature. In darkness, he'd have had a better chance of making his way unseen.

  He closed his eyes, and abruptly saw an image of his mother, sitting in her chair watching the news and seeing his face on the screen, the phone ringing incessantly but going ignored as she popped her pills and wept into her vodka. Or maybe she would see the story and feel nothing, secure in the oblivion she had sought out after Danny's death. At that moment he envied that oblivion, thought that perhaps he should have taken a cue from her and found his own instead of seeking an end to the burning hatred that seethed within him for everything. A fire that could never be extinguished as
long as he was alive but perhaps could have been tempered and controlled by drugs and alcohol. Too much time spent among the dead instead of the living...

  An arrow slammed into the tree, startling him.

  "Come on out," the other man called. "Ain't no sense in hidin'."

  Finch took a breath, held it, and released it slowly. His upper body felt strangely numb, as if the cold from the arrow that had been embedded in his flesh was spreading.

  There was only one way this was going to end. Any minute now more of them might show up and he'd be surrounded, or dead with an arrow through his heart before he even heard them coming.

  He stepped out, gun pointed at the tree, and started—

  —shooting into daylight.

  The ground shifted beneath his feet and he almost went down, a hot gust of air blowing into his face, carrying with it grains of sand to blind him. He blinked and the action took far too long, the gap between darkness and light taking forever. He slowed his pace, looked up in confusion at the searing watery orb of the sun. It seemed very close, the burning eye of a god inspecting him. He was aware that there were other men with him, aware that he was far too hot, wearing far too much clothing for the heat, when someone cried out his name and on impulse he raised his rifle—rifle?—and leveled it at the woman kneeling on the ground before him. Finch's eyes widened; sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades. His knees were shaking. The eyes of the woman in the black abaya were impossibly large as she rose up, the pupils huge and ringed with gold like solar eclipses as she reached out with one quivering, bloodstained hand. Tears carved tracks in the dirt on her cheeks, her face contorted with grief and still she was coming, still she was rushing him and Finch shouted a warning only he could hear because it was inside his head, not meant for her but for himself—stop, oh GodJesus please stop—and now her other hand was falling, falling—no don't no please—to her belt. Except, of course, there was no belt, no explosives, only her hand gripping the material to raise it above her feet to keep her from tripping as she ran, ran, ran to ask him in words he would never understand but would forever read in those eyes that were the whole world, why he had shot her baby boy.

  Finch pulled the trigger. The woman's head snapped back. The breeze spirited away the blood. She crumpled, fell backward. The silence roared. He lowered his gun. "You all right, man?" someone asked. He didn't answer, and they didn't wait for one. People were screaming, running away. His eyes moved to the boy, bleeding from the throat but dead, flies crossing the frozen lakes of his eyes. He'd thrown a rock, just a rock, but it had caught Finch by surprise and his rifle had replied. He could feel a burning now where that rock had hit him, a blazing hole in the center of his chest as he jerked abruptly.

  Daylight faded.

  The moonlight returned.

  Finch tasted fresh blood.

  "Gotcha," said the boy.

  -36-

  "They ain't here," Pete said. "Ain't nobody here."

  Claire ignored him, but knew he was right. Had she expected anything different? Finch had told her the Merrill clan would have moved, so why then was she surprised to find the place abandoned? There were no lights on in the house that squatted crookedly in the dark before her, the weeds weaving sinuously around its base like snakes caught under its weight. Nearby, Spanish moss hung from the palsied limbs of a silver birch, veiling the roof. The sheds, so terribly familiar to her, were empty, the doors hanging open, as if to invite her inside, back into the heart of the nightmare she had come here to put to rest.

  She headed toward them.

  "Wait," said Pete.

  She didn't, kept walking until she was at the mouth of one of the sheds, the same one in which she had been tied to a wooden post, raped and tortured, the same one in which she had taken the life of a man, driven by panic and rage and self-preservation. And how shocked would the world be to know that killing that rotten fuck haunted her more than outliving her friends? But it was true. He'd deserved to die, had forced her to take his life, and yet the guilt that haunted her every waking moment was not alleviated by that truth. The realization of what she'd done, when it dawned on her in the days that followed, stunned her, shoved her over the edge of a precipice into a dark place where even the specters of those she'd lost could not reach her.

  She stepped inside.

  It smelled like dirt, sweat, and human waste.

  The moonlight cast her shadow on the floor, a frail twisted thing trapped in an oblong of cold blue light.

  She flicked on the flashlight.

  Chains hung from the roof like roots in a subterranean cave. They clinked together in the breeze, the rusted hooks clamped to their tails appearing to move toward her, but she was not afraid. There was no further pain to be drawn from her by those hooks or anything else.

  A shelf lined one end of the room. Atop it were canisters full of nails, and Mason jars with some kind of amber liquid inside. Next to these was a jelly jar filled with different kinds of feathers. Claire recognized the iridescent plumage of a bluejay, and maybe the tail feathers of a cardinal. The jars were book-ended by an identical pair of small, cheap looking plastic statues depicting Jesus in prayer, His lifeless blue eyes turned upward as if He was in the throes of death, his shadow reaching up from his skull to claw at the ceiling. A speckling of red paint or old blood colored the right cheek of the statue on the left. There were a few old suitcases and a garish-colored leather purse tossed on the dirt floor. Various work tools hung from nails on the wall. Here was an old two-handed saw with some of its teeth missing. Here, hoes of all sizes pinned to the wall by their throats. There, a row of sickles, some of them missing the upper part of the blade. A single sheet of bloodstained plastic was bunched in the corner beneath a three-legged chair that had been propped against the wall.

  By her left shoulder was the stake, a rough-cut oaken log that had been wedged between floor and ceiling. The wood was stained in places with all that remained of the dead. Claire shook her head and reached out a hand. Again, she anticipated flashes of memory on contact with the stake, an assault of visions reminding her that once it had been her body pressed against the wood, her blood and sweat permeating its surface, her fear saturating it. But there was nothing, only the feel of rough bark against her fingertips. It was just a hunk of wood. Lifeless.

  Behind it, the six-foot high cord of wood, stacked unevenly against the wall, long shards poking out here and there, intended to make the prisoner even more uncomfortable as they prodded into their flesh.

  "Claire," Pete said, from outside.

  "What?" she muttered, her eyes drawn to the floor where once she had watched a man's lifeblood soak into the dirt. There was nothing there now but old boot prints.

  She had asked Pete to bring her here, knowing full well she wouldn't find the Merrill family. They were long gone, and even now Finch and his friend were tracking them. Perhaps they would succeed in exterminating her tormentors, perhaps not. But such a vigil no longer seemed so pressing, or urgent.

  They were alone here, tourists at the site of an atrocity, and it evoked little feeling from her.

  "Claire," Pete said again, and when she turned to look, the beam of her flashlight showed his brown eyes filled with alarm. "Someone's comin'."

  Claire stepped outside and killed the flashlight.

  Pete turned, looking toward the road.

  She joined him.

  A car was meandering its way toward them, flashers blinking red and blue, but soundlessly, shadows dancing in circles around the dark bulk of the vehicle.

  A cop.

  Claire shook her head. Goddamn you, Kara.

  She looked from Pete to the brooding house behind him, then began to make her way toward it.

  "Wait," said Pete. "What are you doin'?"

  "Stall him for me," she called back, and broke into a trot. "I need to find something."

  The cruiser crested the hill, pinning Pete in its headlights.

  Claire disappeared into the house.
>
  *

  With a sigh that sounded almost like relief, Finch dropped to his knees. He felt little pain other than the dull burning ache in the center of his chest from the second arrow the man—or rather boy, as he saw now—had shot into him.

  "Ain't feelin' much yet," said the figure standing before him. He could see that the boy was no more than eighteen or nineteen, but tall, his face in the moonglow possessed of a ferocity that was startling. Rarely, even in war, had Finch been afforded such a glimpse of concentrated malevolence. The boy was breathing hard, the adrenaline making his limbs jerk and twitch, his hands trembling as he held the bow up, an arrow nocked, the string drawn back, waiting to deliver the fatal shot. "Reckon if I let you you'll start feelin' somethin' soon though," the boy continued. "Papa had us put some stuff from the doctor's house on our arrows. Said it makes your mind go funny, numbs you fer a while, makes you no more dangerous than a stunned possum. We even tried it on Luke, and he ain't lifted a finger since."

  Finch was dying. He could feel it, the heat in his chest unable to compete with the rapidly encroaching waves of cold. His mouth was dry, his throat raw with the struggle to draw air.

  "Maybe I'll just wait and see if it wears off," said the boy. "So maybe you can feel what I do to you next. But you might as well toss that gun now, as you ain't got no more use for it."

  Finch lowered his head, icy sweat dripping down his face. He had almost forgotten that the gun was still in his hand. Now he looked at it, moved it so the moonlight glanced off the barrel, and slowly brought it up.

  "I'm warnin' you."

  "Shut up," Finch hissed, and raised the gun.

  We're not doing this your way, he vowed, as he swiveled the barrel toward the boy even as the third arrow was released and cleaved the air between them.

  He pulled the trigger. Light flared. The boy staggered back, darkness blossoming in his shoulder.