Night Forbidden

by Joss Ware

  Ana and Yvonne looked at each other and got to their feet. Yvonne was frowning as she headed toward the thin wooded area where the kids had disappeared. Their voices were still intelligible as they announced new finds and tracks, and then all of a sudden, the air was filled with a roar . . . followed by squeals and screams.

  It took Ana only a moment to recognize that the roar was human and obviously fake, and then that the children were giggling and laughing—that their screams were of delight and surprise, not fear.

  She started laughing. “It’s Fence. He’s the bear,” she told Yvonne. “They were tracking him!”

  And sure enough, moments later the four laughing and shouting children came tearing back into the clearing with a big, growling man lumbering bearlike behind them.

  “We found you! We found you!” Tanya chanted, dancing around in jubilation.

  “That you did,” Fence said, and as he crouched down to talk to the kids, he happened to glance over at Ana.

  Their eyes met, he smiled, and she felt her insides tumble into something soft.

  Oh shit. I think I might be in trouble.

  She didn’t even dare look at Yvonne.

  Chapter 5

  The water rushed over his face, filling his mouth and nose, coming and coming and coming. He twisted and fought, desperate . . . choking . . . but it surged, fast and cold, rushing relentlessly, stronger and harder.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  Water filled him, pummeled and beat into him as the world darkened.

  At last, with a desperate gasp, Fence dragged himself free, bursting from the dream into wakefulness. Relief.

  He lay there for a moment, shaking, his breathing rough and too quick, his heart ramming in his chest.

  It took him a minute to remember where he was . . . and then the moonlit sight of a pencil drawing of three girls playing jump rope reminded him. On the too-short sofa in Ana’s little cottage.

  His fingers curled into the quilt, his eyes gaping wide, and he swore softly. Fuck. Hoped he hadn’t been too loud. He should have slept out under the stars on a pallet like he’d planned to, instead of taking Ana up on the offer of her sofa. The last thing he wanted to do was explain his nightmares to her or her father.

  Sonofabitch.

  Even now that he was awake, his eyes open and his heart slamming, he had to fight to stay out of the dream. It still tugged at him, trying to drag him back under like the same rush that had nearly drowned him twice.

  No. Make that three times now.

  Fence knew he’d be unable to fall back asleep tonight . . . and he didn’t want to, even if he could. Today’s episode in the water—the first time he’d been in water for years—was too fresh and raw. He knew the nightmares would return as soon as he eased back into sleep.

  Silently, he slid from the sofa, tossing the quilt on it, and padded on catlike feet to the window. The moon was waxing, just about to half size, and the stars were amazing—like a swath of glittering lace.

  He never got tired of seeing the beauty of the night sky—so much cleaner and clearer than what he’d known before. There was Mars, not in the place he should have been for November, but in his new position now that the Earth had changed her tilt. And the North Star . . . not quite as north as she used to be, but cocked a bit more to the east.

  Down and just beyond the cottage walkway, Fence saw the sea, heard its churning as it surged onto the shore; inky black and murderous except for a shimmering path lit by the moon. The familiar tightening began in his chest, followed by the ripple of panic in his belly, and he swore violently in his head, furious with himself. Mortified.

  The very sight of water turned him into a mess. Even from this distance. The smell of the sea, the sound of the rush of waves on the shore of a lake or even the tumbling of water over rapids . . . all of it brought back the terror, paralyzing him.

  Hell, when he was in the shower, with the water hitting him in the face, he got a little freaked out sometimes. His jaw tightened.

  What the fuck kind of woman would understand that?

  How a guy like him could be such a goddamn pussy?

  The first time had been when he was seventeen. He and a buddy, Brian, were swimming in the lake. Both of them excellent swimmers, with no fear of the water at all. To this day he couldn’t understand how it happened, but Brian got in trouble. Caught up in something or got a cramp or whatever . . . and so of course he had gone to save his friend’s ass.

  But Brian, like most drowning people, was beyond panic. Big and strong—bigger than even Fence—he grabbed onto him and they got tangled up, Brian’s hands digging into Fence’s head as he desperately tried to climb up over him to get out of the water. That pushed Fence down, down, where he couldn’t move or breathe. It was dark and cold and Brian was on top of him, grabbing blindly, clinging, climbing, kicking, scratching . . . and Fence couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he couldn’t pull free . . .

  The memory, like its accompanying dream, overwhelmed him now, and all at once, he was back in the center of that deep, dark lake, feeling his lungs ready to burst and the water pressing in on him, twisting and fighting with his friend. Fence had finally been released, finally dragged free and onto shore by someone who knew life-guarding techniques.

  Brian had died, and Fence nearly did too. And so began his nightmares.

  If he could have done it differently, if he’d been stronger, smarter, faster . . . But no.

  Brian was gone.

  The second time was six years later. After Brian drowned, Fence never got over his terror of swimming, the sense of helplessness. But he reluctantly agreed to join a group from his old Boy Scout troop on a white-water rafting trip. It would be fine, he told himself. He’d wear a life jacket, they’d be in kayaks, and there was a guide. He was going to prove once and for all that he was over his phobia. For God’s sake, a big strong guy like him? Even his four-year-old niece didn’t hesitate to jump into the lake in water over her head.

  Plus he wouldn’t even have to get into the water except to wash his hands or portage. It was time he got over this ridiculous fear.

  Wrong.

  God or the devil surely had it in for him, because halfway through the trip, Fence’s kayak hit a bad spot in the rapids and he flipped out of the boat. The water was deep enough so he didn’t slam into rocks beneath, but it also tumbled him downstream a mile or two. Even that might not have turned him into the basket case he now was, except that as he went over one of the rushing falls, his life jacket caught on a submerged branch and he got suspended there, twisted and caught on his back and unable to get free.

  And all the while, the water rushed over his face, over his nose and mouth in great, violent surges as he struggled to right himself or pull up on the slippery rocks. It was like being waterboarded, he told Lenny later. No wonder they call it torture.

  He was only trapped that way for five minutes, or so he was told, but that was all it took. Five minutes of struggling to breathe through a rush of water, ebbing and flowing with a chance for air, all the while pummeling him into sharp rocks beneath his back and thighs, and he was done.

  Stick a motherfucking fork into him.

  He was never going in or near water again.

  And he hadn’t . . . until today.

  And even then, he’d been as incompetent and cowardly as possible. Nearly had another tragedy on his hands.

  Fence swore again, acid rising in the back of his throat. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Lenny had understood, though. He’d been with him on the kayak trip and saw what Fence had gone through. They’d even talked about it, about the irrationality of his fears, about Fence’s guilt for being unable to save Brian . . . and Lenny didn’t even look at him funny. But Fence felt as if he were half a man. As if he wore the big-ass flaw on his forehead like a brand.

  “We’ve all got something,” Lenny had said, wisdom burning in his eyes as he clasped Fence’s wrist with a heartfelt squeeze. “We’ve all go
t something.”

  And now, here he was: a damned survivalist in an overgrown world . . . who couldn’t wade up to his knees without turning into an infant.

  And, fuck it all . . . he felt himself flush as he stood at the window, the gentle sea breeze cool against his bare chest. Ana had seen him afterward . . . what the hell she must think of him, puking his guts out after staggering out from a little pool like that. Unable to pull an eight-year-old girl to safety. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. So much for the sun goddess.

  Sure, she let him kiss her on the beach afterward—and what a crazy kiss that had been!—but that was just him seizing the convenience of the moment. That was the sort of thing he did.

  And, true, they’d had that cozy domestic moment in her kitchen . . . and there was the way their eyes met when he was playing Track the Bear with the kids, the sizzle and warmth that came with it, but . . . fuck.

  A smart, beautiful woman like Ana would want the whole package from a guy . . . and he didn’t have it to give to her.

  After their sassy exchange and that sweltering kiss on the beach in Glenway, Ana couldn’t help but be surprised that Fence had taken her offer of the sofa that night without making any overtures—serious or joking—toward anything else. Not even a hint at a good-night kiss after several glasses of mead.

  Not that she would have accepted the offer . . . but still. He could have made it. Or at least hinted around or joked about it.

  Was it possible he’d . . . not liked kissing her? Or that her messed-up leg grossed him out?

  Not that it mattered, except to her pride. It was a matter of self-preservation to keep him at arm’s length and herself fully clothed.

  As they started off for Envy, Fence seemed serious and almost remote.

  He hardly spoke directly to her at all as he guided them along the long, wide expanse of an old highway. There was little left of the original concrete other than random islands of cement with a river of grass, brush, debris, and trees flowing around it. A few old signs indicated that it was either Highway 309 or 809.

  She rode Bruiser, of course, for she could never have made the trip on foot. And Dad had his own mount, which she insisted he ride—despite his arguments to the contrary.

  “There isn’t any sense in making whatever is going on with you worse,” she argued back. “If Elliott says there isn’t anything wrong with you, then you can walk back to Glenway if it makes you feel better.”

  Dad had griped and complained, but he swung his lanky frame up onto the saddle and argued no further on that topic. Instead, he focused his compulsive attention on the safety and stability of the vials and bottles and little dishes he was transporting to Envy—a sampling of his experiments that he didn’t want to leave unattended during his absence. Ana was glad to leave him to it.

  She tried not to worry about what was wrong with her father, and whether this Elliott person would be able to help him. He’d have to do an examination of her father, of course, but there was nothing for him to find, like the energizing gems that were embedded in her own body. When they all lived with the Atlanteans, he’d hardly ventured from their protective island and into the sea, and therefore didn’t need crystals to breathe . . . at least until they made their escape. Then his deficit turned out to be almost fatal, and had cost her the use of her leg as well as much of his memory of their life in Atlantis.

  That happened more than twelve years ago, but she had no illusions that her mother’s family had stopped searching for them. Ana shivered, remembering that terrible, whirlwind of a night so soon on the tail of her mother’s death . . . and brought her attention back to the present.

  Only Fence traveled on foot, but he moved along at a steady pace, seemingly tireless. She and Dad kept their horses at a comfortable walk, and whenever they stopped to rest—which, in secret deference to her parent, was often—Fence would go on ahead and scout out the way.

  Even as they traveled, he often stopped to listen, to sniff the air, to climb up onto an old car or pile of debris and look into the distance. He pointed out where an elephant mother and her kid had crashed through the brush, and a spot beneath a low, wide tree where a small pack of wild dogs had slept. He identified black raspberries, wild corn, tangled cucumber vines, and edible mushrooms. Even a patch of potatoes in one unlikely spot near an old house. He held up a hand once, lifting a shushing finger to his lips, and pointed to a wild peacock wooing his nondescript female.

  Ana knew she would never have seen or recognized any of those things had she been traveling with anyone else. It gave her a new appreciation for a part of the world she took for granted in favor of her beloved Sea . . . and a greater appreciation for the man with them.

  When they left the remains of the highway and began to traverse rougher terrain, Fence led them across a long, open area with a big white pole at one end. Behind the pole was an old electronic sign, long corroded and weathered. Off to one side was a massive, twisted metal object.

  “This used to be a football field,” Fence told them, pausing for a moment. “That white post at the end is the goal—the top’s broken off. It used to look like a wide, flat Y. Over there used to be the bleachers, where everyone sat.” He pointed to the rusty, rickety framework of metal that resembled a tall, wide set of steps.

  Ana could see it now that he filled in the missing images, remembering scenes from DVDs that featured football games. She recognized a note of sadness in Fence’s voice and looked at him curiously. He stood there, looking up and down the field, which now sported grassy moguls and low-rising shrubs.

  Then, as if shaking himself from some nostalgic spin, Fence started walking again. “We’ll stop for the night in about an hour,” he said, but his voice seemed unusually low and rough. “There’s a place up yonder that’s in good shape, with a place for the horses.”

  Sometime later, when they’d settled for the evening in a dilapidated house, he said, “I’m fixing to keep watch tonight.” He glanced at the small fire she’d started in an old sink. Smoke wafted out the broken window above it, and beyond, the sun had set and the world was cast in shadows. “The both of you can sleep.”

  “What are you keeping watch for?” Ana asked, unpacking the satchel of food she’d prepared. “The zombies can’t climb the stairs to get up here.”

  “Could be anything. Wildcats or coyotes. Or feral dogs. Other intruders.”

  “Oh,” she replied, reminding herself that the cries and howls she heard while safely in Glenway could just as easily be from lurking cougars or wolves. And then she shivered—for when she and her friend had made their recent trip to Envy, they hadn’t had anyone in their party of six keep watch at night.

  Then she realized what he’d said: other intruders. Like . . . other people?

  “That looks good,” Fence said, wandering over to the package of flaky, grilled tuna she’d just unwrapped. “Do you need some help?”

  Ana shook her head. “No, I’ve got it.”

  She thought he might sit down on the dusty chair whose upholstery had long been chewed or rotted away—but he didn’t. Instead, he took the tuna, wrapped in a pieced of flat, floppy bread she offered, and wandered around the space, checking out each window. What was he looking for?

  Or who?

  They were just finishing up the meal when Fence made an urgent sound and turned from the window. “Put the fire out. Now.”

  Before she could react, he was hurrying across the room to put down the rickety ladderlike steps they’d climbed then pulled up after them. “Stay here,” he said. “And out of sight of the window. I’ve got to hide the horses.”

  Ana had already thrown a blanket over the small fire, and now she gaped at him. “What—”

  But he was gone, smooth and silent and quick—leaving her prickly and nervous. She exchanged glances with George, who’d looked up from his ever-present notebook.

  “Probably a wolf or something,” her father muttered, then returned to his notes.

  Bu
t she didn’t think so. She eased to the side of the window where Fence had stood and peered into the darkness.

  At first she saw nothing out of the ordinary. But then she heard an unfamiliar rumbling in the distance, and at the same moment noticed a pair of lights, low to the ground, just beyond a low rising hill.

  At first she didn’t believe her eyes . . . but as it continued to roll along, and she heard the sound of a motor coming closer, she agreed with her first assessment.

  It was a vehicle.

  Fence slipped out onto the grass and edged along the ivy-covered brick wall. There wasn’t much he could do to keep the horses from whuffling and snorting, but leading them deep inside an old storage room in what had been a small office building was the best he could do to muffle any noise they might make.

  There was no reason to think that the Strangers or their bounty hunters—for no one else had access to motorized vehicles—would stop at this particular building out of all of the overgrown ones in this former suburban town, but Fence was of the mind that a guy couldn’t ever be too careful. Ana had reacted quickly to douse the flames, and it was unlikely that the golden flicker or smoke had been seen by whoever was driving the car.

  Fence took off in the direction he’d seen the headlights, cat-footed and quick through bristling trees, over rises and down falls and around lumps of debris. His senses were attuned not only to the brief flashes of light in the distance, but also to the environment: for everything from approaching predatory animals to zombies . . . to the scent or sounds of water. The last thing he was about to do was take a dive into some sort of pool or river.

  He knew it was a long shot that he might catch up to the vehicle, or even that it would continue in the direction it had been going, but he figured he’d take the chance. He wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to eavesdrop or spy on them.

  It was difficult enough to drive on rough terrain and over nonexistent roads during the daylight, but nearly impossible to do so without breaking an axle or blowing out a tire in the dark. Therefore, he reasoned, they’d likely have to stop soon.