Alan Wake

by Rick Burroughs

  Here,” said Barry, giving the flashlight back to Wake. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “Where are you going?” shouted Wake as Barry ran off the back of the stage. “Barry!”

  The Taken rushed the stage, coming up the stairs on both sides, clawing their way over the front apron.

  Wake fed fresh shells into the shotgun, wondering if Barry’s idea involved running away as fast as he could. Wake wouldn’t blame him.

  A lumberjack Taken wielding a crosscut saw scrambled onto the stage, and Wake caught it in the beam of the flashlight, then blasted it apart.

  “Almost got it!” shouted Barry from the side of the stage.

  “Almost got what?” yelled Wake, spotlighting two other Taken, destroying both of them with one round from the shotgun.

  More Taken swarmed the stage, too many of them, way too many.

  Black diesel smoke poured from the exhaust of the generator as the power came on. The stage lights flared, and the Taken onstage disintegrated around Wake.

  “Let there be light!” said Barry, scooting back onstage.

  Taped music blared from the speakers lining the stage, the Andersons’ heavy metal anthem booming out across the farm.

  “You did that?” said Wake.

  “Barry Wheeler, total service agent at your service!” bellowed Barry above the din. He ran to the mixing board at the back of the stage, started playing with the switches. Skyrockets shot off the top of the stage. Spotlights popped on, shone across the field, disintegrating the approaching Taken. “Rock and roll!”

  The power died. The lights went out. The music stopped.

  “That was a short concert,” Wake said quietly.

  Barry tore into the mixing board, pulling out the cables. “Looks like mice have been chewing at these things.” He started twisting bare wires together. “I never told you I managed a punk band in college. Kind of the roadie, too. We did a U.S. tour in a Dodge van with no spare tire.” He reconnected the cables. “Let me see… see if I still remember how to patch an amp.”

  More Taken charged across the open field.

  Wake took back the flashlight from Barry, then picked up a roll of gaffer’s tape lying on the mixing board. He taped the flashlight to the barrel of the shotgun, winding the metallic tape round and round. “That’s it, take your time, Barry.” Wake turned on the flashlight, racked the slide of the shotgun as the Taken got closer, moonlight glinting on their axes. “No need to hurry.”

  “Quit pushing me!” said Barry, plugging more wires into the board. Sparks erupted and he jumped back.

  Lightning forked across the field, making the shadows of the Taken enormous, like gigantic scarecrows in motion.

  “Any luck there, Edison?” Wake said to Barry, trying to keep his voice steady.

  Barry bent over the mixing board, ignoring him.

  Wake shot the first Taken that made it onto the stage, the combination of the flashlight and shotgun devastating, the light slaking off their protective shadows as the shotgun blasted them to atoms. Wake moved quickly across the stage, firing constantly, blowing the Taken apart. He scampered back to Barry, reloading, got there just in time to disintegrate a Taken in a silvery hard hat about to drive a pickax into Barry’s skull.

  Barry looked up as the Taken sparkled into dust, the pickax the last to disappear. He nodded at Wake, and then went back to work.

  The Taken swarmed up the far side of the stage, but Wake didn’t have time to stop them; he was too busy keeping the immediate area cleared. An ax whizzed past his head, buried itself in the wooden framework at the back of the stage. He kept firing, always in motion, trying to draw the Taken away from Barry, giving him time.

  The front stage lights came on, disintegrating the nearest Taken.

  “Way to go, Barry!” cheered Barry. “A few more minutes and I’ll get the rest of them on, Al.”

  Wake moved into the light, using it as protection while he reloaded. Heat radiated from the barrel of the shotgun as he slipped shells into the port on the side.

  The lights went out. Then came back on again.

  “Damn circuit-breakers have been out in the weather for years,” complained Barry, bent back over the mixing board, working frantically.

  “How am I supposed to…” He cried out as the lights went out again.

  Three slender Taken came at Wake, splitting up before he could shoot them all with one blast. They were quick, zigzagging in and out, each of them wearing gray mechanics coveralls, wielding heavy wrenches. A county work crew caught by the darkness, lost forever now. He blasted one of them as it darted in. Then another, but the third one… the third one managed to get close enough to bring down the wrench on Wake’s shoulder before he shot it. Wake could barely hold the shotgun up now, his right shoulder numb, his right hand tingling.

  “Barry! I’m losing it here!” Wake shifted his grip on the shotgun, firing with his left hand, but his aim was off. More and more of the Taken made it onto the stage. The gaffer’s tape holding the flashlight to the barrel of the shotgun was smoldering. Any moment now the adhesive was going to dissolve and the flashlight would slip off. “You have to hurry!”

  The Taken moved toward them from both sides of the stage, thundering up the stairs and over the front apron.

  Wake dodged a thrown sickle, the blade barely missing his face, when the flashlight fell off onto the stage. The light went out. He shot the nearest Taken, but it had no effect.

  The Taken rushed in just as the stage lights popped on, blue and red stage lights, hot white spotlights, even the large rotating searchlight at the top of the stage. Waves of Taken fluttered apart like dead flowers in the searing lights, flaring into dust across the stage. The heavy metal soundtrack kicked in, a mega-decibel guitar duet blaring into the night, and dozens of skyrockets launched from behind the stage, exploding above the field, perfectly synchronized with the music, beat for beat. The field, which had been thick with Taken a moment earlier, was empty now.

  Barry played air guitar as the music reached a frantic crescendo, strumming away as Wake stared at him.

  “Al! This may be the most awesome moment of our entire lives!” called Barry as he duck-walked across the stage, still grinding out phantom power chords.

  Exhausted, Wake lay down on the stage, watching the fireworks overhead, a shower of stars falling slowly though the night.

  Nightingale eagerly examined the stack of papers Wake had been carrying. It was incomplete, a collection of random pages, disjointed and strange. But there was enough: he saw his own name in there, among others. His hands shook. Finally, it was proof. He had been right all along. He didn’t understand even half of the manuscript, but somehow it all rang true, impossibly true. He took out his hip flask when he reached the page that described how he reached the page that made him take out his hip flask. It wasn’t the booze that made his mind reel.

  CHAPTER 20

  BARRY SAT DOWN beside Wake on the stage, blue spotlights playing across their tired faces. Heavy metal still boomed from the speakers, but the last of the fireworks had faded minutes ago. Still no sign of any more Taken, the field deserted except for the crushed cornstalks and silent scarecrows. Wake reloaded the shotgun anyway.

  Wake tried the flashlight again but it was dead. “Maybe there’ll be fresh batteries in the farmhouse,” he said, checking that the revolver was loaded. He offered it to Barry, but Barry shook his head.

  “Al… we’ve been really lucky so far, really lucky,” said Barry, looking out toward where the stage lights didn’t reach, “but maybe it’s time for us to call the sheriff.”

  “Oh, that’s a great idea,” mocked Wake. “Except this kind of thing might be a little out of the sheriff’s job description.” He stood up. “I’m sure Breaker’s a straight-up police when it comes to a barfight or a husband and wife going at it with the kitchen implements, but what with the Taken and the Dark Presence and Alice at the bottom of the lake, we might be asking her to accept a little too much on faith.”
He slapped his head. “Oh, wait, I forgot, there’s FBI Agent Nightingale.”

  He dug out the microcassette player he had taken from Hartman’s office. “Here’s Nightingale at the front gate to the lodge, asking Hartman about you.”

  “Me?”

  Wake pressed a button on the player.

  —not… not buying that, said Nightingale, slurring his words. I was tailing Wheeler, and this is the only place he could’ve gone. That means Wake is probably there too!

  Agent Nightingale, this is private property, said Hartman, and I will not allow you to disturb my patients.

  Yeah? I can get a warrant. How would your fragile little patients like that?

  Oh, I’m thoroughly intimidated by your mighty authority now, Agent.

  Listen, you smug bastard, how would you like it if I busted through this gate and knocked you around a little?

  Agent Nightingale, first of all, I’m recording this conversation, so you might want to watch what you say. Secondly, you’re not dealing with a hick now. I know the law, and if you can get a judge to grant a warrant, I’ll be glad to cooperate—but you won’t get one. Be advised that any further communications with me are to be made through my lawyer.

  Wake turned off the player. “Somehow I don’t think we want the steadfast and reliable Agent Nightingale rushing out here to help us. The last time I saw the guy he tried to shoot me.”

  Barry stood up, his nylon parka rustling. “So, what do we do?” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

  “What we started out to do,” said Wake. “We’ll go to the Anderson brothers’ house and look around for the message they left for me.”

  Barry looked at the nearby farmhouse. “Maybe… maybe there’ll be fresh batteries in the cupboard or something.”

  “Great idea.” Wake walked across the stage. “Let’s check the barn first. There might be a truck we can take after checking the house.”

  Barry hurried to catch up. “You know, Al, the Old Guards of Asgard, they were a pretty good band.”

  “You’re not going to start playing air guitar again, are you?”

  “When we get out of this,” said Barry, “I don’t want you mentioning that to anyone.”

  Wake rocked out, using the shotgun as a mock guitar.

  “Very funny,” said Barry.

  The barn was a large, classic wooden structure that the Andersons had painted bright purple once upon a time. Now it had weathered so that it was the color of a fresh bruise. It took the two of them to swing the doors open, creaking on their rusted hinges.

  Wake fumbled around for a switch and was stunned when the lights came on. The Andersons must have a direct-payment plan with the electric company, and a fat bank account to cover it. No car in the barn, just a mess of sound and stage equipment, including a full-size Viking ship dangling by chains from the rafters.

  “Wow,” said Barry, staring up at the ship. “These guys were really into this Viking crap, weren’t they?” He put a horned helmet on his head. “What do you think?”

  “Très chic,” said Wake.

  Barry explored the rest of the barn while Wake looked around the workshop. Plenty of power tools, which he wasn’t interested in, but there were a couple of battery-powered lanterns that still worked. He picked up a blowtorch, shook it. Still gasoline in the tank. He considered carrying it with them, but it was awkward and would have only been effective at close range. Wake remembered the three Taken in coveralls that had rushed him on the stage, the one that had gotten close enough to hit him with a pipe wrench. It wasn’t just the pain of the blow that Wake remembered, it was the… cold, the utter, soul-sucking emptiness that emanated from the Taken. No, Wake didn’t want to kill Taken at close range again. Once was more than enough.

  “Al!”

  Wake dropped the blowtorch, grabbed the shotgun.

  “Come here, you got to see this!”

  It wasn’t fear in Barry’s voice, it was excitement.

  Wake walked over. “What’s up?”

  “Check this out,” Barry said proudly.

  Wake stared at the complicated assemblage of copper tubing and glass bottles that surrounded a large, copper tank. Fifty-pounds sacks of corn were stacked haphazardly in the corner. It looked like rats had gotten into them. “What is that thing?”

  “What is it? It’s a still,” said Barry. “You’re even more a city rat than I am.”

  “A still?” said Wake, moving closer. He touched one of the copper coils. “To make whiskey?”

  “To make moonshine.” Barry handed him a quart jar of clear liquid. “Taste it.”

  Wake shook his head. “That stuff can be poison.”

  Barry took a swallow. He grabbed his throat, rolled his eyes, started twitching, head jerking back and forth.

  “Barry?”

  Barry opened his eyes, laughing. He held out the mason jar.

  “This is good stuff, Al.”

  Wake took a swallow, gasped. “It tastes… tastes like lighter fluid.”

  “See, I told you it was good.”

  Wake passed him one of the lanterns. “Let’s go check out the house.”

  “Fine, but I’m bringing the white lightning.” Barry took another swallow, and then screwed the lid back on the jar. “Top grade musicians, top grade moonshiners… those Anderson geezers are a national treasure,” he said, following Wake out of the barn.

  “Maybe you could ask the government to make room for them on Mount Rushmore,” said Wake.

  “There’s no money in mountaintops.” Barry unscrewed the lid and took a sip, sloshing moonshine down his hand as he walked. “This thing… this thing’s got reality show written all over it. I could sell the pitch in a heartbeat.” He licked his wrist. “Good to the last drop.”

  The farmhouse was unlocked. Wake stood in the doorway, swiveled the flashlight beam across the living room, saw only furniture and a band poster half-peeling off one wall. He turned on the lights. “It’s safe,” he said, going inside.

  “Of course it’s safe,” mumbled Barry. He turned on a floor lamp in the living room, then the lights in the kitchen and a light in the hallway. “Why wouldn’t it be safe?”

  The living room was furnished with dated but high-quality furniture. A buttery brown leather sofa with a yellow cashmere afghan thrown across the back and white pine bookshelves. A cut crystal coffee table and an antique, gold-leaf mirror over the fireplace. The carpet on the hardwood floor was a pale gray Iranian weave; Wake had seen a similar one in a New York store for thirty thousand dollars. At the same time, the television was an old-fashioned tube model instead of a flat-screen, and the stereo components didn’t include an iPod hookup.

  A series of 8×10 color photos on one wall showed the Andersons performing at concerts around the world. The brothers strode the stage playing V-shaped guitars, wearing Viking helmets, fur vests, and thigh-high leather boots. One photo was taken at an outdoor stadium, the brothers bathed in red light, the crowd in the tens of thousands. Wake remembered the first time he saw them, the two brothers arguing in a booth at the Oh Deer Diner. He remembered one of them, could have been either Tor or Odin, asking him to play “Coconut” on the jukebox, and the simple delight on their faces when he slipped the quarter in the slot of the machine. He wished he could have done more for them.

  “Nice place. Looks like it’s been recently lived in too,” said Barry, pointing to the dishes on the counter in the kitchen. “Guess the Andersons have a hall pass out of the nuthouse anytime they want.”

  Wake turned on the light at the stairs, walked up to make sure they were alone. There were three small bedrooms upstairs. No Taken, but no note from the Andersons either.

  He looked out the window. The generator beside the stage was still pumping out diesel smoke, the speakers still blasting out the best of the Old Gods, the field still empty, as though the crowd had gone home but the concert continued. Wake left all the lights on in the bedroom, then walked downstairs.

 
“Did you find it?” said Barry.

  Wake shook his head, headed toward the kitchen.

  Barry turned on the radio, and Pat Maine’s voice purred out. He sat down on the couch, unscrewed the jar of moonshine.

  “As you regular listeners know,” said Maine. “I tend to work through the night, but I’m not the only one. Deputies Mulligan and Thornton are taking a couple of moments off their busy schedule to join me here in the studio. Boys, how busy are you now? Deerfest is almost here, isn’t it? I bet that keeps you in business.”

  “Hey Al, let’s take a drink every time somebody says ‘Deerfest,’” called Barry.

  “It’s been pretty busy, yeah,” said Mulligan.

  “Actually, Pat, we’ve been real busy with other stuff,” said Thornton.

  “Things which concern an ongoing investigation, so we can’t talk about it,” said Mulligan.

  “I wasn’t gonna say anything. I was just saying that we’ve got, you know, other irons to fry besides Deerfest,” said Thornton.

  “Deerfest!” cheered Barry, taking a swallow from the jar of moonshine.

  “And how would you boys compare your workload to last year’s?” said Maine. “Things have seemed relatively peaceful to me, but people do tend to get a little wild around Deerfest, don’t they?”

  “Deerfest!” said Barry, taking another drink.

  “It’s crazy, Pat,” said Thornton. “There’s been all sorts of trouble this year. Vandalism, fighting, public disturbances… a lot of people missing too.”

  Wake looked on the kitchen counter and checked the drawers, but there was no sign of a note. He started a circuit of the living room, checking the desk, the fireplace mantel.

  “Now, is it just me, or does Deerfest get wilder every year?” said Maine. “People seem to be more drunk, at least, and they start earlier, and younger…”

  “And then there’s the Taken,” chimed in Barry, toasting the radio, “that always adds to the festivities.”

  “Oh, it’s definitely not just you, Pat,” said Mulligan, “but what’s weird is most of the trouble seems to be coming from middle-aged guys, people who oughta know better, you know? The kids are doing fine this year.”