The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

by Robert Dunbar

  Staring hard, he waited for the swirling to stop. He braced himself, then slipped one foot into the water, felt for the bottom. Water rose almost to the top of his boot, and the edge of the windowsill slipped from his freezing fingers. He yelped once. But both feet found the uneven ground, and he slogged on, his wake striping the surface behind him. The water reflected a dimming sky.

  He balanced precariously along the trunk of a downed tree, then plowed for the corner. Half a block farther on, he splashed through shallow puddles. At the corner, the little library tottered brokenly, glass walls completely gone. The final liquid flickers of light revealed sodden books, floating everywhere, spread in the puddles like the carcasses of broken gulls. Lightning veined the sky; wind wrinkled the puddles. If the storm comes back, and catches me outdoors...

  Thunder detonated across the low rooftops, and he ran, splashing wildly. With a sudden hiss, rain slanted down, spattering the smooth sheets around him into leaping patterns.

  Gargantuan clouds tumbled inland, dense as oily smoke within which splinters of light flickered, still smoldering. He bolted past the church. The ersatz stained glass hung shattered now. Spinning around the corner, he halted.

  Halfway down the grimy block, one apartment building towered above the rest.

  As Kit approached, the door of The Edgeharbor Arms banged softly. All the glass had gone, and wet slivers glistened on the steps. From inside, a steady tinkling drifted, almost like music.

  Cautiously, she edged through the door. A damp blotch spread on the Oriental carpet, and the chandelier chimed, swaying--she gave it a wide berth as she yanked the drapes aside. Sudden dust added to the reek of decay, but a wave of fading twilight swept through the lobby. Stifling a sneeze, she turned to the desk and the dim apartment beyond.

  The closets stood open, contents ransacked. As she paced back toward the faint light of the window, she spotted an old registration book on the desk and found only one name on the latest page, only one room number.

  Wind resonated around her on the stairs, and the clanking of the chandelier pursued her. Even as she climbed the staircase, she knew nothing living shared this structure with her. Two floors up, one door stood open, casting a patch of paleness on the hall carpet.

  "Steve? Are you in there?" She found little to indicate that the room had been recently occupied. But what had she expected? He had trained himself to leave no sign.

  The drawer stuck, then gave with a thin howl of wood. She searched the dresser, then the single tight closet. Finally, with a small grunt of satisfaction, she hauled the two suitcases out from under the bed. Grabbing the flashlight from the dresser, she propped it on the pillow and tried the smaller case, only to find it locked. Briefly, she considered searching for the key; then she struck the clasp with her pistol. A second later, she dumped the folder into the light.

  The beam glinted thinly from a snapshot of a mangled face, and her bile rose. She yanked the rubber band off a stack of photographs and tossed them on the bed where they spread like an evil deck of cards. She blinked. How could he have these? She barely noted the newspaper clippings and maps that filled the bottom of the case--her eyes kept returning to the photos. How could he have gotten them?

  Numbly, she flipped the catch on the larger case. Stuffed in among the clothes lay several large manila envelopes and an old knapsack. The knapsack felt stiff.

  She unzipped it and reached in, then drew back her hand with a sharp gasp--darkness welled in her palm. With her other hand, she angled the flashlight: a slice oozed from the base of her thumb. Holding the flashlight gingerly, she tilted out the contents of the knapsack, and something thudded on the mattress. She tugged away the rolled towel.

  A carving knife, a cleaver, wire cutters and a hammer--all clotted and dark--covered the photographs of carnage.

  "What have I been helping?" she whispered. "Oh God. What is he?" She thought of the Chandler children, hiding from him, skulking from apartment to apartment because they somehow knew what stalked them. "What have I done?" She backed away from the bed.

  Frenzied now, she searched every corner of the room. Where could he have gone? There had to be some clue here. She had to find him. Her foot struck something by the leg of the chair.

  Picking it up, she held the notebook to the light: it took a moment for her even to recognize the marks as writing. The insane scrawl made the flesh at the back of her neck tighten, though most of it remained incomprehensible. "...changing...every day...feel it...the need pulsing in the veins. No choice now. Must kill the boy." The very bottom of the page was filled by what appeared to be numbers, and she strained to make them out.

  Six thirteen Decatur. A glint of silent lightning flickered on numerals above the door. Perfect lookout. The tallest building in town--he cursed himself for not having thought of it. They'll be on the top floor.

  Steady. Trembling with anticipation, he regarded all the darkened windows. Most were shaded, many broken. This is too easy. He backed into the nearest doorway. I didn't come this far just to walk into a trap. Scraping his hand along the wall, he crept away along the glistening street. Somewhere around here...there must be a...

  He felt the opening.

  His boots sloshed through unseen puddles as he wandered down the alley. Again, the drizzle had ceased completely, even the wind dying away, though a distant rumble drifted in the sky. Might as well be blind. Thick odors of brine drowned the stench of rot, and he stumbled around a corner. The passage broadened into a sort of courtyard, and from the lower corners all around him, sloshing noises echoed faintly.

  I'm here.

  At last. Dimly, he perceived the rear walls of the buildings that surrounded him: sharp tracings and blocked masses, and the tallest building, just ahead, its fire escape a jagged chevron. I've got him. He lurched forward, the shadow at his feet shifting like weighted silk. Deep water filled the courtyard, he realized, and a vicious tremor shook through his body.

  Above him, metal rattled.

  He's up there!

  Something splashed heavily; then gulping and thrashing resonated in the dark closed space.

  A gift!

  The sky flickered. Faintly, he made out a slender form, wallowing.

  You can't get away this time. He reached. Not this time!

  He groped toward the noise of the foundering boy. Monster. His arms began to ache and tremble, his fingers clutching convulsively. Just a little closer. The splashing stopped, and he actually heard teeth click together. Keep coming. He strained his vision. A foot from his face, two smudges hung. They blinked back at him.

  He lunged. The boy fell backward with a splash, then burst like a deer through the flooded courtyard. Steve hurled himself at the sounds of flight, water striking him like a wall. "No, you don't! No!" Plunging into the freezing pool, he pitched forward to cut off escape through the nearest alley.

  He saw the boy reel backward, the white face like a night-blooming flower. A trickle of moonlight revealed only part of that face: the mouth open in a black howl. The visage seemed to float, dissolving, and a shrill moan filled the courtyard.

  Scuttling clouds dashed more moonlight into the courtyard, revealing cellar stairs that sank behind the boy. The flood crested his knees.

  A shroud of liquid around the boy swelled. With a grinding roar, the cellar door behind him opened. Steve echoed the boy's wordless shout, something viscous uncoiling in his stomach. Instantly, the flood churned downward, forcing the door wide with a squeal that sucked deep into the basement.

  The boy cried out again--a splintered shriek--as he threw out his arms and clawed into the door frame, bracing himself against the flow. Whirling, he stared down into the pit behind him. A tumbling splash diminished down the stairs, but his groans trembled to rebound from the walls. At last, he scrambled backward up the steps against the thinning cascade.

  One of Steve's arms tightened about Perry's shoulders; another circled his stomach, crushing him to his chest. "At last." Steve's breath rasped agai
nst the thin neck. "I've got you." The slender body felt soaked and frozen against him. "Monster." His lips pressed close to the boy's ear. "You know what I've got to do now." His grip wound tighter as the boy thrashed convulsively. "Be quiet." He could feel the pulse of the boy's throat against his chin. "It won't hurt." He heard the air go out of the boy's chest. "Don't struggle." He spun Perry around to face him.

  Snap the neck. He shook the boy until his head lolled back and forth, then clamped him again in a bear hug. Do it, damn you!

  A growl echoed in the basement, like a cry from the depths of hell.

  Steve froze, his hands on Perry's throat.

  Footsteps clomped upward.

  Still clutching the boy, Steve inched back. The splashing came closer. He stumbled for the alley, groping for an entrance. As they plunged into the narrow channel of the passage, his shoulder struck a wall. Perry hung limply in his arms.

  He dragged the boy around a corner, then slipped, going down on one knee, almost dropping him. Behind them in the dark, their pursuer stomped faster, moaning with sorrowful rage. Steve lurched to his feet, finally staggered out onto the sidewalk.

  A blinding light lanced the side of the building. For an instant, he thought lightning had struck.

  "Put him down, Steve." She melted out of the shadows. Thrusting the emergency lantern forward like a weapon, she stepped closer. "If you've killed him..."

  Her other hand gripped the revolver.

  The boy sagged like a corpse in his arms. With no breath left to speak, Steve just nodded back down the alley.

  "Don't move. It's over. Don't try to run. I'm warning you." She stepped closer. "I know everything. I found the knives in your room."

  "...coming!" He tried to gasp the words out.

  "Don't move, I said."

  "...there! It's coming!"

  "Please, don't make me shoot you." Wonderingly, she muttered, "You're really scared." Her glance took in the trembling pallor of his grimed face; then her gaze tracked to the alley.

  Water dripped loudly, and she trained the lamp into the passageway. Dark pools and floating refuse stood out in the glare, and farther back...did something move?

  Something hissed explosively--like the snort of a huge beast.

  "What is that? What's back there?" The light wobbled, dimming as it probed, and in the faintest periphery, a form tumbled back, then scrambled over a wooden fence to thud wetly on the other side. Splashing noises faded.

  "Evidence." His voice cracked. "Those things you found. Evidence. What? Did you think they were souvenirs?"

  "Was that Ramsey?" She turned to him, trembling slightly. "Is the boy...?" She played the light across them, and Steve closed his eyes, his face a mask of misery and exhaustion. "I don't understand."

  The wind moaned wetly.

  Suddenly, the boy clung to him, quivering with terror. "No, Ramsey! Don't!" He flailed with his fists, his blows containing no more strength than those of an infant.

  XXV

  Dark silence pressed at the grated windows, and the single orb of an emergency light glared above the entrance. "Runs off a battery," she told him. "Hold him while I get the door." Though she struggled to sound calm, tension vibrated in her voice.

  Steve took hold of Perry's shoulders, partly to keep him from bolting, partly to prevent his falling. He felt the boy shiver like a colt.

  "The bridge is still down. I checked the radio." She fumbled with the key ring. "Lots of beach towns got hit worse than us, I suppose. That's mostly where the rescue efforts are focused--farther down the coast and..."

  Feeling another tremor in the boy's bony frame, he tightened his grip.

  "...besides, they probably think we all got out. So we're stuck here for..."

  "You going to open up or what?" He peered through the wires that meshed within the diamond-shaped window.

  "Oh. Yes, just..." She jerked the key in while his stare probed the structure. A corner property, it might have been any sort of business, except that nesting up against it, blocking the sidewalk and part of the side street, sat a modified trailer on cinder blocks, with heavy grills covering the window vents.

  "Holding tank?"

  "What? Oh. Right. We don't use it much." The door popped open. "One other thing I heard on the radio that you should know--we're not a peninsula anymore."

  His eyebrows went up.

  "Right. An island. Temporarily anyway." She seemed to guard the entrance. "So he stays here till help arrives."

  As Steve maneuvered him through the doorway, the boy sagged. "Knock it off!" Steve shook him.

  Suddenly, the boy wrenched around, scratching.

  "Knock it off, I said, or I'll break your arm!"

  "Steve!"

  "Get out of the way, Kit! Here. Help me with him. Take his other arm."

  "I've got him. It's all right. He stopped--ease up, Steve."

  At the end of the short corridor, a desk and several folding chairs filled most of a small room. Bleeding away color, a floodlight near the ceiling streaked the cinder block walls and banded a cement floor from which gray paint had mostly worn away. Shielding his eyes against the glare, he looked around for somewhere to deposit the boy.

  Catching Perry around the shoulders, she pulled him along like a puppet. His feet moved feebly. "Okay, here." She steered him to a seat, knowing he'd hit the floor if she let go. "Sit down." She shoved him gently. "Stay there."

  He coiled back into the chair.

  "Don't be afraid," Steve told him.

  The boy cringed, his hair matted and dripping, his whole body shuddering.

  Steve reached for him. "I won't..."

  Perry grunted, his stomach and chest beginning to rise and fall convulsively beneath the sodden jacket.

  "I'm not...not going to..."

  The boy watched him with eyes the color of pale, polished oak, his terror like a tangible force in the room.

  "Here." Kit stepped closer. "Look at me." She'd unzipped her thermal jacket but kept it on. "Your name is Perry Chandler?" One glimpse had taken in the whipthin frame, his long legs and bony hips. "Are you hurt, Perry? Why are you holding your arm like that?" Her hand hovered above his shoulder. "You don't like to be touched, do you, Perry?"

  He trembled. Without warning, he bolted from the chair and dodged past her.

  "No, you don't!" Steve blocked the exit.

  Perry plunged backward, flattening himself against the wall.

  "No one's going to hurt you." She barely gasped out the words.

  Brushing away her touch, he grunted like a wounded animal and molded his body to the corner.

  "Get away from him. Don't argue. Now stay behind me." Steve pushed her aside. "Stop that, you. I said, stop it."

  The gurgling sob in the boy's chest choked to silence.

  "You're safe. No one will touch you. No one but me. You understand? But right now you have to deal with me." He righted the boy's chair and shoved it at him. "First, get out of that damn corner!"

  "Steve, you're both shivering. There are some blankets in the lockup. Let me..."

  A look of feral alertness flashed across the boy's face as quick eyes darted to the door.

  "Don't even think about it," Steve told him. "Now, sit down, I said. Time to answer some questions. Where's your sister? Answer me--where is she?"

  The boy's lips drew back, exposing his teeth in a desperate grimace, and a swelling rattle began in his throat.

  "Stop that!"

  "Steve, what's wrong with him?"

  Crouching farther into the corner, Perry bashed his head back against the wall, a yowl gurgling out until Steve grabbed him by the collar.

  "Those scars on the back of your hands--how'd you get them?"

  "Make him stop!"

  "You've never seen the kind of marks that ropes leave, have you, Kit? How about the kind of scars a strap makes?"

  "Don't!" She caught at his arm.

  "I'll bet if we looked at his back we'd find some really interesting souvenirs." H
e wrestled the boy into the chair. "They control them that way sometimes. For a while."

  "You're terrorizing him."

  "Him?"

  "He's just a little boy." She stared at the bedraggled hair plastered to the thin face, at the clothing that clung so darkly. "He looks so fragile." The terrible noise had stopped, and he sagged against Steve's large, clutching fists. "I'm going to get the blankets," she said, imagining she could almost hear the boy's heart pounding beneath his shirt. "Did you hear me, Steve?"

  Full of terror, the boy's gaze followed her.

  "And don't touch him while I'm gone, Steve. Do you hear me? Don't touch him."

  Hard knots bit deeply into sore wrists, and sharp pain surged up her arms. Somehow she'd managed to twist her hands around in front of her, and again she threw her weight against the closet door. It felt like the air was almost gone, and she could barely fill her lungs. But the door didn't budge. Again her bound hands rasped at the tape across her mouth, loosening a corner and finally ripping it away. Gasping deeply, she hit the door and rebounded, tripping to strike her head against the wall. No more, please, no more. Huddled in the darkest corner, she began to sob. Let it end.

  A vibration slid in the wall by her head. Faintly, it throbbed again. Pushing as far back as she could, she bit her lip to keep from whimpering.

  The doorknob rattled; she tasted blood.

  The door jarred. Perry! Help me! She slid to her knees in terror, as the door leapt in its frame. Who is it? What's happening? At the last instant, she recognized the explosions of noise as hammer blows against the lock. He was telling the truth, oh God, the truth all along, they're coming to get me, they're here! The monsters!

  The noise stopped. With a soft click, the door swung in, and she blinked. In the trickle of light, a countenance swirled: slowly, it coalesced into the face of all her oldest nightmares.

  It smiled.

  Ripping from the bottom of her belly, the scream hurt coming out.

  The boy sneezed again. Then the man sneezed.

  Perry's hair glistened like metal as it dried, falling forward over his face, and he stared fixedly at the floor. A pair of thin blankets around him, he hunched forward, his bony knees jutting bright crimson. Periodically, he mouthed at a paper cup full of water. A slow pattering provided the only real sound in the room as his sopping clothes, wrung out and hung across the back of a nearby chair, dripped onto the newspapers beneath them. Earlier, he'd stiffened when she'd tried to get the clothing off, silently flailing his arms and legs like an infant, but she'd gotten him dried as best she could. When she'd pushed the darkened tangle back from his face, she'd expected him to be hot, but he'd felt cool to the touch, the sharp bones delicate beneath her hands.