Stavros stared after the two men as they joined the lazy spirits on the front steps of the courthouse. Walked right past them and inside, as if the lounging inmates really were mere phantoms in white.
He lay back down quickly, hiding in the shadows.
And now Dora is a real ghost, maybe.
The thought made him shudder. He tried to shake it off, but with all he’d seen in the last few days, what before would’ve made him laugh as a scientist now made him desperate to keep his eyes open.
See what science hath wrought.
Was that his conscience or God speaking? Maybe there was no difference.
Dora Baine had left the courthouse alive and kicking and unrestrained in her appetite for violence. Encouraged to sate that lust thanks to the gene therapy delivered by the Serenity Virus he’d introduced into her brain. The thought that Dora Baine might yet exist in some form beyond his ken—safe from his influence and ability to observe, analyze, and affect—absolutely terrified him.
He was the Stavros beneath the desk again. The Stavros afraid of what he couldn’t understand.
Scientifically impossible, he consoled himself. Ghosts don’t exist. Empirically unproven.
Through the window, the wind whispered a low sound of lonely wandering.
Stavros closed his eyes, clutching the gun at his waist like a baby holds a blanket.
I’m sorry, God, he thought. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered aloud. He said it like a ward, as if casting a spell to protect himself in his dreams. He repeated it, over and over, until at last he slept.
* * *
“We need to get out of here,” said Mark. He started to rise, but his leg gave way beneath him. He landed on his butt with a grunt.
“You need a few minutes,” said Lauryn lighting candles. “At least until the damn Taser wears off.”
“They’ll be back,” he said, staring hard at her.
“I know they’ll be back,” she answered, her voice just as firm. “But not immediately.”
Jasper growled low, his eyes flitting back and forth between them. Sitting next to him on the floor of the convenience store, Megan leaned over and gave her dog a hug for the eighth or ninth time since their reunion. He licked her face.
“Jasper’s right,” she said, her words muffled by the dog’s matted fur. “Y’all need to stop fighting before you even get started.”
Lauryn flicked out the match and glanced at Mark. “Massage your leg,” she said. “You’ll get rid of the tingling faster.”
Mark nodded and rubbed his left calf.
“Where will we go anyway?” asked Megan.
“Anywhere but here,” answered her mother.
“The police station. Safest place at a time like this. It’s not much farther.”
Megan nodded. Her eyes traveled to the heap that used to be Dora Baines. The corpse sat, staring at them blankly. Two eyes gray and dead. A third eye socket gaped above the other two, black and empty, weeping blood. Legs outstretched and arms loose, her left hand, black and unconquered, clutched tightly in a fist. Her mouth slack.
“Mom, can you please do something about her?” Megan asked. She wrinkled her nose and put her hand over it. In death, Juggs had released her bowels.
Lauryn followed her daughter’s unwavering stare. “Honey, we won’t be here much longer. Just try not to look at her, okay?”
Megan finally pulled her eyes away. “It’s the way she’s looking at me,” she said. “And she stinks.”
Can’t argue with that, Lauryn thought. She knelt beside the dead woman, head averted as she tried in vain to breathe clean air.
“What are you doing?” asked Mark.
“She might have something we need. You never know.” She checked Juggs’ pockets. Tucked in her belt behind her back, Lauryn found a billy club. Six packs of cigarettes and a box of kitchen matches were hoarded in a front pocket.
“Mom, please.”
Lauryn took one of the grey freighter’s blankets from the floor and draped it over the staring corpse. Juggs looked more like a fat boulder now.
“Thank you,” said Megan, petting Jasper’s head. “Didn’t do much for the smell, though.”
Rubbing his other leg now, Mark asked, “How’d he find us, anyway?” He arched his head at Jasper.
Lauryn shrugged. “Must’ve tracked us. Maybe he remembered Mom’s house and ended up there after he ran off. Then picked up our trail?”
“Tracked us?” Mark’s tone was incredulous. “All the way to Conroe?”
“Who knows? I’ve heard stories of dogs tracking their families across the whole country before.”
“Tracked us,” he mused. Looking sidelong at Megan, he winked and said, “Good thing we walked, ay?”
Even a few days in hell hadn’t been enough to completely eradicate Teenage Angst, Inc. Megan smirked and said, “Whatever.” But then she leaned over and whispered to Jasper, “Yeah, good thing we walked, huh boy?”
Lauryn reached over and ruffled Jasper’s head, then nodded toward the window. “I’m going to see how things look out there,” she said, standing.
Mark tried to join her. “Wait, I think I can—”
“Rub. I won’t go outside. I just want to have a look.”
Lauryn snapped on the flashlight and stepped across what remained of Fort Catherine. She’d hoped to find Smack’s Taser, but he must’ve grabbed it before fleeing. As she got closer to the front of the store, she slowed her approach. Flattening her back against a wall, she chanced a glance beyond the broken windows and hanging one-by-sixes.
All was quiet. Even the crickets and bullfrogs seemed to finally be bedding down. A quick reconnoiter down the street in the other direction revealed the same. She heard Mark and Megan packing up their things.
“At least we were able to replenish supplies,” said Mark as she stepped back over the fallen shelving to help them. He was upright, if moving stiffly. “So, upside.”
Lauryn gave him a tired smile, but her expression quickly turned serious. “I don’t think we should try and make the police station tonight. It’s another few blocks in the dead of night. Collins and that scarecrow could be anywhere. And who knows who else is out there?”
Mark looked uneasy.
“What?” she asked.
“I just really want to get to the police station. There’s bound to be protection there.”
“We’re not sure of that, actually. But I don’t disagree. Look, let’s just find another place to hole up. It’ll be dawn in a few hours. Then we can see where we’re going.”
He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
“Besides, Dad,” said Megan, “my dream’s done. Mom fought with that woman.” She gestured at the lumpy gray blanket. “And won,” she finished, grinning her certainty.
Mark returned her smile, then pulled her close. Megan gave her mom a look of “What? What’d I say?” But she let her dad hug her and even returned it when he held on for a moment.
“Right, doll. You’re right. And you’re right too,” he said to Lauryn. “Let’s just get the hell out of here before they come back.”
Nodding, Lauryn led the way, pistol drawn. Megan stayed close to Jasper. A wary Mark brought up the rear.
Staying close to the buildings, they walked down South First Street, away from where they’d seen Smack and Cackler make tracks. They went east on Silverdale and finally found an abandoned washateria in a neighborhood of tract houses and duplexes. It’d been closed long before the hurricanes hit. Unprotected, the weather had shattered its windows, providing easy access to three weary travelers and their dog.
A quick look inside showed it empty but for half a dozen washers and dryers. It smelled a little of old washing powder and new rain, but Lauryn thought it would serve perfectly as a refuge till dawn. Moving the units around, they could hide their presence from anyone passing on the street. And no one else should wander in, she figured, at least not for the next few hours. They created a new barricade of laundry equipment in short
order.
“Now you sleep,” insisted Lauryn to Mark. “And you,” she said, turning to their daughter.
Megan bedded down eagerly, relaxed in the knowledge that her nightmare was a thing of the past. Jasper collapsed next to her, releasing a long sigh of contentment. Both were asleep in no time.
Less enthusiastically, Mark followed orders. Sleep wasn’t something he was looking forward to. But he was so tired, he simply did as he was told. The next thing he knew, he was falling. Falling forever, it felt like. A giddy sensation of dream-falling that never seemed to end. Falling with flames. Falling on fire. And as he fell, a rooster crowed. Loud and long and grating, a hateful sound to someone wrapped in sleep. The longer he fell, flames devouring his clothes and skin, the louder the rooster crowed. Then it screeched like a bird being tortured. A banshee’s shriek knifing through his brain.
The sound of a child screaming.
Mark jolted awake. Pain shot through his back and skull as if, finally, his dream-fall were ending with him crashing to the washateria’s cold, concrete floor.
The rooster-child next to him screeched again.
His brain finally registered—it was Megan screaming.
Chapter 21. Monday, dawn.
“Tell me again,” said the Maestro. “And skip the chatter.” His eyes pierced Cackler’s to the back of the lanky man’s head. Cackler looked away like a dog beaten all its life.
The two men were surrounded by prisoners in white, their left sleeves rolled up to the elbow, their left forearms black and scaled with red lines. This was the uniform of Id’s army. She named them her Black Hand.
Marsten called them his Weisshemden. His Whiteshirts. “Terror is always a little more terrifying in German, don’t you think?” he’d told his generals. Thousands of Weisshemden camped inside the courthouse now, watching the interrogation. Waiting for orders.
“We were looking for supplies like you told us, Maestro,” said Smack. “We scouted a store. Turned out there was a family inside. And Lauryn Hughes was one of ’em. I mean, what are the odds? A Walls guard right here—”
“I said, skip the chatter.”
Smack waggled his head. “Right. Cackler and Juggs went in. Juggs got killed.”
The silence that followed hung in the air.
“Okay, more than that. By the husband’s knife or the bitch’s gun? You were less than clear before.”
“Shot. In the forehead.” Smack poked his thumb into the middle of his own brow like he might pull a plumb from his skull. “Right there.”
Marsten pulled his hands together in front of him. His shoulders relaxed. “She was one of us. I don’t mean this mob of gophers,” he said, motioning at the Weisshemden. “She was one of the Serenity Six.”
“Now four,” said Smack.
Marsten regarded him coolly. “Yes, now four.”
“What about me? I’m good in a fight. Just ask Smack! I went in before Juggs—”
“Shut your mouth before I spread it open with my fist and pull your lungs out through your throat.”
Cackler’s eyes went to the floor again. “Apologies, Mr. Marst—Maestro.”
“The sun is rising,” said Id. Her sensuous voice, soaked in promise and peril, filled the courthouse. She had claimed a black marble sculpture of a judge’s bench sitting in the middle of the rotunda. It was now her throne.
“Is that a problem, Mistress?” asked Marsten, his voice soft, respectful. He found no difficulty switching between alpha male-marshal of generals and supplicant-apostle. His reaction to her voice was Pavlovian. The minute Id spoke, all listened. All immediately knew their place beneath her.
“You are the children of He Who Is To Come. His power comes from the dark.”
“He’s a vampire?” asked Smack. His tone was reverent. His question was childish. Marsten lifted an arm to backhand him for speaking directly to her. But Id raised her hand and he was compelled to stop.
“No. He is so much more than your linear minds could possibly imagine. He bestrides space and time.” She closed her eyes, a look of ecstasy turning her lips upward. Her naked body shuddered on its copper throne, her hair stroking her body like a lover. “His talon is nearly touching this world.” Id grasped the arm of her throne, her knuckles turning white. “It will be soon now,” she breathed.
“Mistress, if I may.”
Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned them on Marsten. He waited until she nodded her permission to proceed.
“We should show the Black Hand that Juggs’ death will be avenged. It’s a code they understand. Feeding that hunger for vengeance will only bring your master into this world sooner. Am I right?”
“Maestro, each time you satisfy hunger at the cost of fear, it brings our master closer to us. The destruction you spread when you march with the Black Hand will draw him here like a moth to a flame.”
“Then the sooner we march, the sooner he comes.”
Id’s eyes smiled at him. Marsten was enthralled simply looking at her. He watched the strands of her hair fondle her skin. His mouth watered.
“I approve of your initiative, Maestro. Yet the daylight is dawning.”
“What’s so special about daylight?” asked Smack.
“Terror is fueled by the unknown, General. By what cannot be seen. Cannot be understood. Light reveals. Darkness hides. In the shadows of fear that reside in the darkest corners of your mind—that is where the power of the Black Hand lies. In your victim’s self-doubt. In their inability to reconcile themselves to the finality of death. In the turmoil they feel within themselves when they deny their own desires. In the daylight, these sparks are more difficult to stoke into flame.”
“Before you arrived, an orange fog came,” Marsten said. “Can you shield us from the sun with it?”
For the first time since Id arrived, Marsten saw a moment of doubt in her green and violet eyes. She quickly subdued it. But the Maestro couldn’t un-see it, and what he’d seen disturbed him. What does a goddess have to fear from the sun? he wondered.
“I can decrease the sun’s effect, but not undo it. My aid to you will be limited to that.”
Refocused on avenging Juggs, the Maestro smiled. “I’m a capable man, Mistress. And I want to handle this personally.”
Id returned his expression. She ran her tongue across her teeth. “Then find your revenge and bring our master into this world, Maestro.”
Marsten bowed to her.
He spoke briefly to Simpson and Maggie. Marsten handed her the Barman’s Buddy and told her to ready the Black Hand. When they returned, he said, they would raid the police station for weapons and march on Houston, ripe and waiting to supply them with countless soldiers for their cause.
Then Marsten broke a glass case on the wall and removed the fireman’s axe inside. Turning to Smack, he growled, “Gather four Weisshemden. Let’s go find that bitch.”
* * *
“I had the dream again,” Megan said. She was shaking still, her voice raw. “The dream about Mom.”
Mark held her in his arms. Jasper snuffled lovingly at her hand and Megan scratched him behind the ears. It soothed her. Lauryn stood at the entrance to the washateria, looking for anyone that might’ve heard her daughter’s screams.
“The one where she fights the other woman?” asked Mark.
“Yeah.”
Lauryn scanned one last time outside, then walked back to their camp behind the washers and dryers. “But I thought, after Dora …”
Megan looked up at her. “I know. I thought that too. But it was even more intense this time. Like it’s closer to happening.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head, frustration evident. She was trying to remember and failing. “I don’t know! It was a dream!” Megan looked up at her mother, tears in her eyes. “But not just a dream. It felt so real, Mom. And you were losing.”
Her words brought Mark’s own dream back to him. The falling and flames. The waking up like he’d just hit the pavement hard. His back still ached. Felt bruised.
“We need to get to the police station,” he said, looking up at Lauryn. His eyes were flinty. He’d brook no argument this time. “We need to find shelter. Real shelter. And protection.”
Lauryn nodded. “Agreed. Pack up. Quickly.” She gazed out beyond the window of the washateria. “Let’s get moving. Before others are on the streets.”
They stuffed their few camping items in their backpacks and, with Lauryn and Jasper leading the way, headed up South First Street toward downtown Conroe. The dawn sun felt good on Lauryn’s skin, quickly chasing away the chill of the previous night.
Everyone was jumpy after Megan’s dream scream had rousted them from restless sleep. Even Jasper was cowed. He stayed so close by Lauryn’s side, she was afraid she might trip over him. Mark seemed fidgety to her, like he’d always been in college right before giving a presentation to a roomful of classmates. Like he was experiencing stage fright or something, which made no sense to her. And Megan just seemed frightened, her eyes distant as if she were replaying her dream, again and again, looking for more details that always stayed just out of focus.
All of them fast-walked without being told.
“Lauryn,” whispered Mark. He gestured up with his head, drawing her eyes above them.
The yellow-orange fog was back, only now moving south. It rolled outward from downtown. Thickest higher up, it stretched from building to building as it moved, eventually enveloping each structure’s brick and mortar and metal like a giant blanket. At street level, the air was thinner, more yellow. A curtain of suspended water vapor coated their skin, tickling it, as they walked.
“We need to move faster,” Megan said. Her tone was the same as at Capstone Church. The soothsayer’s voice that held knowledge beyond what they all could see. Beyond what a teen should know.
Jasper whined.
“The police station is only a couple of blocks away,” said Mark.
“Move!”
Lauryn led the charge into the fog, Jasper at her heels. The dense air felt dirty on her skin, chased the soothing sunlight away, and grew heavier as she passed through it. Walking through the air felt like walking through water. The fog smelled vaguely of rotten eggs, and she wondered if they were downwind of a supermarket bereft of power for days. Or maybe Conroe had a sulfur plant.
Stormbreak (The Serenity Strain Book 1) Page 20