The Complete Four-Book Box Set

by Brian Spangler

  The sun climbed the horizon and brushed the lip of the ocean, stretching rays over the bends of the earth to reach her. She breathed in the yellow daylight, satisfied by the warmth.

  A gunshot.

  Another.

  A thousand midnight stars rolled in the surf: bright and sparkly, racing to wet her toes. The foamy waters rushed onto her feet, and then retreated, enticing her as the sand became soft and washed away. But then she felt a bite: a sinister nip that turned the moment.

  The sound of lightning pierced her ears, searing the sky. She waited for a rumble that never came.

  More bites. Razor sharp. She winced, trying to move, but her legs had become glass—smoky stains below her knees—buried like pillars in the sand.

  Her legs split, fracturing, and pain suddenly radiated through her. She tried to scream but spat broken glass instead, spilling like bloody charms.

  Her legs cracked and shifted, and began to slide apart.

  Agony.

  The sun vanished behind a sea of glass, and wave after wave—some as tall as buildings—crashed on top of her. She tumbled; her legs breaking apart into a million pieces, throwing her about mercilessly. Another wave rolled her, and glassy stones filled her mouth and nose and ears, suffocating her. I’m going to drown! And as the rest of her body broke apart, she realized that she’d been made of glass all along.

  Emily stirred, peering narrowly at one of the giant walls of glass. A hole near its center opened into a crater, turning the window into a jigsaw puzzle with a thousand pieces bound together, holding back the rain. But in a blink, the window disintegrated, pouring down—pieces skidding across the floor and spilling over her. The sound jolted her while the first of the storm’s winds touched the inside of the mall.

  Her father lay on his side, lifeless. Blood spread in a gory puddle around him. Smeared footprints and scuffed boot marks circled his body from the men stepping around him, taking turns to beat on him.

  “Dad?” she called out, but her heart told her that it was a pointless call. He couldn’t have survived a beating like that. “Dad, please!”

  “Em,” he grunted, and her heart leapt with hope. Her father stirred again, pushing himself onto his back. “Tunnel!”

  “The service tunnel,” she answered. “Yes… Dad!” But he’d gone quiet again, slipping back to wherever it was the men put him.

  “Still moving?” Jeter spat. “Again!”

  Another gunshot.

  But Emily wasn’t dreaming this time. Her ears began to ring, and the smell of spent fireworks wafted beneath her nose. The gunfire was real.

  “I said that’s enough!” Mr. Halcomb screamed. The old men and their tree trunk sons backed away from her father. “I’ll use it on them Jeter—on you! I swear it; I will!”

  Emily saw the gun. She hadn’t seen it until now: rigid metal dangling like a loose pendant from the end of Mr. Halcomb’s hand. White smoke drifted from the end of the barrel, and his hand trembled nervously. The end of the gun wavered in front of him so much that she was sure he was going to drop it if startled.

  The nightmare sunrise stayed fresh in her mind, helping to piece together what had happened. Mr. Halcomb must have fired a warning short, ending the threat on her father’s life. But the bullet hit one of the glass walls, destroying it. Two long window panes remained, and she could see the tropical rains pelting against the glass, running down in slender wet stretches. But the third window, the tallest of three, the one in the middle, lay in a glistening pile of broken glass.

  Emily struggled to get to her knees, stretching the ache in her back, but then flinched with the suddenness of a dense pain. The injury from the car crash spoke up, telling her to sit back down. She held back her breathing to a mere sip of air, afraid the pain would knife her insides. Emily tried not to cry out, but couldn’t stop. Balling her hands into fists, she bit down on her lip, taking in a long breath past the injury.

  Her father stayed motionless, and for a moment she was certain he’d died. When she reached him, she lay her fingers on his neck just like she’d done with Fen. When she felt a pulse, relief came in tears. Emily darted a hurtful stare at the tree trunk brothers. They stared back with no emotion on their faces: just empty pages, having followed the directions given to them.

  Her father stirred, waking and reaching to take her hand. His face had started to bruise, swelling beneath his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. He gasped, spitting up onto the floor and tried to speak, clearing his throat.

  “Get to the tunnels,” he said, repeating himself.

  “Man’s guilty,” Jeter said. The old man’s tone remained accusatory, but his eyes stayed fixed on Mr. Halcomb’s gun. “Guilty as them other ones. Someone’s gotta pay. He can’t be here with us; he’s an outsider and needs to go.”

  “Emily,” her father said. He yanked on her arm and motioned to the broken glass. “Get away from the window. All of you, get away from the rain!”

  A tropical gust blew up, sending a torrent downfall inside the mall, catching one of Jeter’s sons. Emily felt a sense of gratification when seeing which of the tree trunks had been hit by the rain. It was a small satisfaction—a few blisters would be a good start. But the feelings soon disappeared when she saw what was happening to him.

  “Dad?” her voice wavered like the gun, which Mr. Halcomb had dropped to his side. “Dad, what’s happening to him?”

  “Move!” her father yelled, and by now Peter groaned, rolling onto his hands and knees. “Get away from the windows!”

  It’s just rain; she tried to convince herself as wisps of smoke began to rise from the man’s head. Next, it was his shoulders that turned smoky, clouding his face and sending a stench into the air that made the other tree trunk brother retch.

  “Help me!” Tree-trunk screamed, turning to Jeter and his brother. “IT BURNS!” But the men stepped back, afraid to touch him, leaving him alone.

  Tree-trunk grimaced, anguish in his face and torture in his eyes. He swung his arms, trying desperately to swipe at the back of his head. But from his closed hands, he dropped handfuls of hair held together by patches of his scalp. Bloody clumps fell to the floor like wet rags. Tree-trunk circled around screaming like a house-cat with its tail caught in a trap. Emily gasped when she saw what the rainwater was doing to the rest of him.

  She pulled on her father, reaching beneath his arms to slide him away from the windows. Peter followed, as did the others. They gathered by the carousel, taking cover beneath the canopy. Another gush of rain came into the open window, dousing the man. He screamed, rearing up, clutching at the air for mercy as if the rain had been a thousand whips, peeling away his skin.

  “Move!” Emily screamed at Tree-trunk, but his tortured eyes couldn’t register anything anymore, he was lost in the suffering and the torture of what was happening to him. “You have to move away!”

  Peter shook his head, clearing his senses and was up on his feet when the horrific sight registered. He ran around Tree-trunk, trying to find any way to put out a fire that he couldn’t see. Another wash from the storm blew through the open window. A few drops hit Peter’s arm, burning him at once, covering his arm in a smoky sleeve. He screamed, swiping at the small drops before returning to the carousel.

  Emily dragged herself toward Peter, and was thankful to see the smoke thin and disappear. Burns the size of silver dollars dimpled his skin. Peter tore at his shirt, wrapping the open wounds.

  Tree-trunk screamed as more smoke blew up around him. The rain scorched the back of his head and neck, and he spun around again, trying to bat at the fire. His arms flailed aimlessly, striking and beating himself.

  Blisters grew out of his back, but they were far worse than the blisters she’d had on her arms. Tall silvery boils covered all of Tree-trunk, bursting open and pouring out a steamy liquid that plopped melted remains onto the floor. It was a sound that she’d never forget. His screaming had turned into something else then—a growling cry that rose and fell with each n
ew blister. His skin bubbled like water coming to a boil.

  Emily tried to turn away but was struck by the sight of Tree-trunk melting to death. She was screaming. Her father tried to cover her eyes, but she pushed his hand away. And there were others screaming, too. Jeter, and his uncle and brother, screaming at Tree-trunk, telling him to drop down and roll. But this wasn’t like a fire drill at school. Tree-trunk dropped to his knees, and large caving holes took the place of the blisters, opening his flesh and spilling his insides.

  Jeter raised his hands, waving them above his head, and then turned his back, forfeiting, unable to stand the sight of what was happening to his son.

  The man plopped onto his chest, squirming forward blindly. His screams drowned in a hoarse watery rattle that set deep in his throat; it was a sound that Emily immediately recognized. Not long now, she thought. So strong and fast. Very fast. She recalled what her father had said that first morning. He’d spoken of how strong the poison was, and how fast it worked. Did they ever consider a tropical storm? Could they?

  “Please!” Jeter begged, turning to Mr. Halcomb, pointing at the gun and then to his son. “Do it man. Please!”

  Mr. Halcomb’s face had gone pale—ghostly white—he shook his head, and then looked at the gun. Emily could see the disbelief in his face, questioning what Jeter had asked him to do.

  Ms. Parks stepped forward, stooped down, and took hold of the gun. Mr. Halcomb said nothing, but instead raised his hands, stepping further back into the safety of the carousel. Ms. Parks lifted the gun and pointed it at the howling man. The gun looked clunky and surreal in her hands, and Emily wondered if her old teacher had ever held a gun before. Ms. Parks closed one eye, squinting with the other, and lined up the barrel. Aiming, she squeezed the trigger. Emily’s father tried again to cover her eyes, but she pushed his hand down, impatiently. He doesn’t get to do that anymore, she thought, and considered everything that had happened over the last days. The gun’s hammer leaned back but then stopped. Ms. Parks groaned, and the man howled louder as rain lashed at his open flesh. Emily cringed at the horrid sound, and told herself to turn away.

  “Please!” Jeter screamed. “Don’t let him suffer!”

  “I’m trying!” Ms. Parks yelled. The gun shook in her hand, and the hammer nudged back, only to fall forward, settling.

  “Pull the hammer back with your thumb!” Mr. Halcomb yelled. “Pull it until it clicks.” Ms. Parks gave a short nod and cocked the gun.

  “Don’t hit the other window—” her father added.

  But his words were lost in the sound of the gun firing. The bullet hit the floor in front of the man, throwing sparks up into the air before disappearing with a whizzing sound. Before anyone could say another word, Ms. Parks took the second shot, sending a bullet into the man’s brain. His head bucked up, spraying a cloud of red behind him, and then dropped down.

  Ms. Parks’ shoulders slumped, and she lowered the gun, sighing. A grim satisfaction stole the concentrated expression on her face. Emily wondered if the man had already died before the bullet ever touched him. And though the dead don’t bleed, she saw that the rain water continued to feed on the man, eating away at his skin, melting him until she thought nothing would remain except a puddle of gore.

  “Okay,” Jeter said.

  Everything suddenly became quiet as if the horror of what had just happened somehow stopped time. Emily listened to her father breathing, and then passed a glance to Peter, and felt grateful that they were both going to be fine.

  “You have to go!” Peter yelled, ending the quiet. He’d covered his arm, tending to his burns, but puffed out his chest, intent on being heard. “You’re the outsiders. Understand me!”

  “Now hold on a min—” Jeter’s brother began, but then stopped and raised his arms.

  “No! You hold on,” Ms. Parks answered. She held the gun—steady, strong—as if she’d been handling guns for years. “You beat this man and hit this child. There’s no room for you here!”

  Emily’s mind roared, cringing at the ache they left on her. She wanted to yell at them too, but held her words. Her father moaned and pushed up onto his knees. She’d expected him to say something, but he only looked at Ms. Parks and the gun, and stayed quiet. The gun is like the talking stick, she thought, remembering the summer camp where they could only speak when they had the talking stick.

  “No more!” Ms. Parks continued. “I don’t care where you go, as long as you’re far from here.”

  “The service tunnels,” her father said. His voice sounded mumbly as he tried to talk. His lips bounced with his words, pouching out in a painful droop. “We all need to go!”

  Jeter flicked a glance toward them, stabbing her father with his eyes.

  “We’ll go,” Jeter said, keeping his eyes on her father. “We’ll take the service tunnel you all found. The mall ain’t the only place. But mind me when I say that someone’s gotta pay. Ain’t free what he’s done. Gotta pay the fine.”

  A large crash came then—the first of many, Emily was sure.

  “Can you walk?” Emily asked, pulling up on her father’s arm. He stood with her, rising slowly, pushing his weight onto her shoulder.

  “I can walk,” he answered, coughing up a mouthful of blood. Seeing her father’s beaten face, Emily suddenly broke down and cried. “Em, I’ll be fine. Just a few bruises and broken stuff.”

  “I know, but scared me is all,” she said, tucking her face into his shirt, and folding her arms around him. She felt him flinch, and she relaxed her hands, apologizing.

  “The rain?” she mumbled. “It’s going to pull the mall apart. Isn’t it?”

  A second crash, heavier and denser, shaking the floor, reminding her of their garage the moments before it was destroyed. The memory was fresh—the sounds, the smell—yet it felt like a lifetime ago when it happened. She pulled back from their hug, searching for an answer.

  But before he could say anything, the sound of metal bending, popping and shearing away from its welds spilled down from the second level.

  Her father’s eyes got round. “It’s just a matter of time. But I think I can stop it—even save the mall, maybe.”

  “Stop the rain?” Mr. Halcomb asked, standing next to them, offering a hand. “The fog too?”

  “I don’t know,” her father answered, shaking his head. “But the rain… has to do with the cloud density, which we can control.” Mr. Halcomb straightened himself, peering over to where Jeter and the others had stood. Emily saw that they were gone. He looked to the puddled remains of Tree-trunk and then back to her father.

  “Then what they said was true?” Mr. Halcomb asked, giving him a look of disappointment. “How much of it is true?”

  “Some,” her father said. Peter and Ms. Parks joined them, dismay in their expressions.

  “We defended you!” Peter blurted. “We thought Jeter was just some random old coot who didn’t know what he was talking about.” And while she picked up the tone of disappointment in Peter’s voice, it was the look in his eyes that hurt.

  “Wait,” Emily interrupted. “Just wait and hear what my dad has to say.” But the shame filled her, leaving her to wonder whose side was the right side, or if there should be one side to take at all.

  “It’s true that I worked there… at the machine,” her father answered. “But what I did there isn’t relevant to the current circumstance.”

  “I pulled a gun on them to defend you,” Mr. Halcomb said. His words were soft as though he were speaking more to himself than to her father. “I broke the window, killing that man.” Mr. Halcomb’s eyes emptied, and his face went slack and then his whole body seemed to sag from the weight of what had happened.

  “Nonsense!” Ms. Parks spoke up. “You stop that guilt-feeding right now Charlie Halcomb.” She swung her arm, stinging his cheek with a slap from her open hand. Mr. Halcomb’s eyes came alive, and he shook his head at her.

  “Why’d you do that?” he asked, rubbing his cheek.

&nb
sp; “Wanted to turn your attention… to take you off that path you were headed. It doesn’t matter where Mr. Stark worked. In fact, we should be thankful to have someone here who knows anything about the machine.”

  “That’s right,” Peter added. “If Emily’s father hadn’t said something, we’d have gone outside, gone out into the rain.” One by one, they each peered over to the remains of Tree-trunk as if to confirm what could have happened.

  Relief welled inside her. She’d never considered the perspective Ms. Parks shared.

  “What do you want us to do?” Mr. Halcomb asked.

  “First thing is to get everyone into the service tunnel,” her father started.

  “We can move down there, and even move our supplies too,” Peter added.

  “The scuba suits?” her father asked.

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “I’m sure that the other tunnel reaches the beach,” he answered. “But I can’t be sure how far. I think the machine is a quarter mile north, to the right.”

  “But the scuba suits that I found won’t fit you, Mr. Stark,” Peter exclaimed.

  “Dad, you can’t go unprotected.”

  “What about an umbrella.” Ms. Parks suggested. “We can use the wetsuits we found and fashion an umbrella.” Emily’s father nodded, and she could see him working the numbers in his head.

  “The neoprene won’t hold up to the rain, but it will buy me the time I need.”

  As they continued to make plans, they made their way back to the center of the mall. Emily kept an eye on the darker corners, searching the shadows for Jeter. But the men had gone, and she hoped that it was the last they’d ever see of them.

  Beyond the food court, Emily saw that dozens of people were milling around, still preparing for a meeting that never happened. Mr. Halcomb saw the group too, and waved his hands over his head to get their attention. A few gasped when they saw what had happened to her father and Peter. Mr. Halcomb hushed the questions and did what he did best, deliver and direct. And though a hundred questions sprouted like weeds—creepers and redroot, and even some dandelions that turned into good ideas—Mr. Halcomb and her father hurried the questions along. But nothing motivated the group more than the sounds of the roof beginning to collapse. The Food-Mart was a simple shack by comparison. There was no outrunning the mall if it came down on top of them.