Hold the Light

by Ryan Sherwood

  Down in the wet gutter of the river, the darkness was total. Where I was, no moonlight glistened. Hardly anything was visible from water level. I waded to the shoreline. I blindly pawed about the land but got nowhere. I had to disrupt the calm air by yelling for her. The convict would know right where I am, if he didn't know or have her already.

  "Amber, where are you?" I called several times into the night, walking along the gravel and garbage in my soaked trench coat.

  I called out and walked along, but found nothing. I pressed on until a faint sound came to my ears. Halting and hushing, I listened yet heard nothing. I took a step forward and a shooting pain in the back of my head shifted. It moved like a knife, down the middle of my skull. Holding my head and wincing, I moved on with my search. I wouldn't let a damned headache stop me. But it was so dark. I would never find her.

  "Amber," I called out, as my head pounded and my hair stood on end.

  "Over here, George," she finally replied.

  "Where are you?" I whispered.

  "Right here," she waved her hand.

  I squinted, looking along the shoreline, and finally found her slopped over a log. I ran over to her, trying not to make any more noise. My hands were frozen and shaking in fear and chill.

  "Are you alright?" I asked.

  She glanced at me through the bruises and scrapes on her face.

  "No, my leg ...I think it's broken or something, it hurts."

  "It's alright, sis, I've gotcha."

  "Where is he?" she asked.

  "I don't know, but I know he's around. He's got a new idea in his head."

  "What did he call me?"

  "Veronica." I looked down at Amber, staring at the scar over her upper lip. The image of Veronica looking up at the convict popped into my mind.

  I studied her a moment and realized there were a lot similarities between the two. Same eyes, same hair, similar face, and scar on their lip. "He called you Veronica. He thinks you're his long lost wife."

  "What? Oh shit. Why the hell did he do that?"

  "You look a lot like her," I droned, thinking while I talked. What could this mean? I could see why the convict thought Amber was Veronica. Their similarities were striking. And she had changed so much from the Amber I've known that she seemed a whole new person.

  "Don't look at me like that, dammit. I'm obviously not her ...and I don't want to be around to tell him. Let's go!"

  We hobbled along the shore and headed towards the city lights in the distance. I knew he'd be somewhere stalking us, watching us from the tree line or waiting at the next bridge for the best time to strike.

  Chapter 67

  I couldn't help but dwell on the convict's reaction as I lugged Amber downstream. Her scar, her looks, and the fact I hadn't seen her until recently. Was there a connection? I shook my head, no way. I was getting paranoid again.

  "Let's pick up the pace," I said, focusing on the task at hand.

  No crickets, no animals, no people or anonymous sounds chattered around us. The river slowed its tumultuous shouts into a tender babble and an unsettling feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. I went into a few convulsions along the trip but made sure to keep Amber aloft in my arms. Her leg was broken.

  But the quiet took me thoughts to every corner of my suspicions, splitting my head down the middle. The pain was harsh and drove deep into my skull. I felt like I was ripping apart.

  I drew my focus away from everything crammed in my head and followed Amber's direction away from the river. Looking up the cliff towards the woods above, the incline appeared even steeper than the way we took down. But roots punched out of the dirt and served as rungs and thick branches hung low enough for us to climb with.

  "Go first, I'll be right behind you," I said too loud, nearly shouting over the shrill stabs in my head.

  She pressed a single finger to her lips in a shooshing mime. I nodded as she hopped upwards, relying solely on her left foot and arm strength to climb while I tried to pushed her from behind the best I could without loosing my footing. We hiked up the roots to ground level and slipped over the edge into a bed of pine needles. A thin line of planted trees ran along a backyard with toys scattered about.

  "We need to get out of here, George."

  "We need to get you to a hospital, Amber," I said, nodding at her right leg.

  "That can wait. I don't want that asshole coming after us with children nearby," she said pointing to the various toys.

  "He's after us. After you, it seems," I said. The seed of suspicion grew bigger in my head.

  "They're asleep in the house, Amber," I said looking around the yard. "Wait, follow me. I've got an idea."

  With her arms slapped around my neck from behind, Amber hobbled on me to a big tree with a tire swing dangling from the largest branch. It rocked in a slight breeze. She winced in pain. As she leaned up against the bark, I quickly climbed the branch and untied the rope. The tire swing crashed to the trim lawn. I followed it down and untied the rope.

  "What're you gonna do with the rope?" she asked.

  "Well," I started to answer as I walked over to pick up a wooden baseball bat nestled in the lawn, "you need a splint."

  I propped the wooden bat up against her leg and tied the rope around as tight as I could without having her scream out in pain. She didn't make a peep. I saw the distress and weariness in her eyes. She sure was one hell of a trooper.

  "There," I said, half proud of myself.

  She looked up from her leg, wrapped with a bat, and stared at me.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Let's just get going," she said, shaking her head.

  Chapter 68

  Winding through the houses, we emerged at a train depot. I sighed in frustration. We'd have nowhere to hide out here in the open, but there was little choice. I recognized the area and remembered there was a hospital beyond the train tracks.

  We hobbled out into the open. The orange streetlights tinted the pavement and we steered away from them the best we could. Nothing stirred. No cars, no people, no trains. We passed the platform and limped on towards more lights.

  "There's the hospital," Amber cried, pointing just beyond the curve of the tracks at a ten-story building.

  "Let's go." I helped her along, believing that we might actually make it.

  "Hold on a second," Amber said, as she crouched down and shifted around the baseball bat. I stopped and held her up while she adjusted the loose splint.

  A deafening bang vibrated through the air. I quickly turned my head as a sharp pain bit into my left shoulder. Blood spat from me and over her head. I twirled down into a heap. She sprung to her feet and looked behind us, found nothing, and then came to me. I was sprawled out a few feet from the tracks, in the middle of the intersection, bleeding.

  "Oh God, George," she panicked. "You've been shot! Are you alright?"

  She touched a trembling hand to my cheek, pulled back red stained fingers and began to cry.

  "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God," she shuddered. "Tell me you're okay. Where are you hit? Where did that come from?"

  My head was swimming and I was seeing spots. Objects danced about in balls of light in front of me. I couldn't tell if I was sitting or standing, where I was or what had happened; all I could feel were the clamps of the gift tighten around my throat and chest. I coughed and realized I was on the ground. I slowly sat up.

  "Oh thank God, you're alright," she said, hugging and helping me.

  "Jeez, what happened?" I said.

  "I think you were shot," Amber responded, and then looked about for the source of the gunshot again. She finally found it.

  "Oh God George, he's coming. I see him. What do we do? He's got a shotgun."

  "A shotgun? How the hell?" I looked up at her and put my hand down into a puddle of my own blood. I pictured the convict breaking into some house or shop and stealing a shotgun and ammo. Wouldn't be too tough for him to manage.

  "He's coming!" she shrieked.

  I watched the
convict appear from the darkness, a large leaden block chiseled from the shadows and walking into the stark cold orange light. He had a double-barreled shotgun hanging by his side.

  "Amber run, dammit, run," I spat.

  "No, he'll kill you, I have to stay."

  "I can't die. I'll be safe. Look," I said, pointing to her hand.

  She stared at her hand; it was nearly spotless. My blood, the final drips falling from the side of her palm to the ground, had already begun its march back to me.

  I couldn't be put in the situation Randy was in when he passed me this curse. Kill your friends to survive or press the worse curse onto them.

  "He's after you," I barked, but followed up with a whisper, "Just get to the hospital. I'll distract him. He can seem to sense me but he can't sense you. If we're together now, I'll die and he'll take you. If you run, we have a chance."

  She reluctantly turned and waddled across the tracks as fast as her leg would let her. I watched her go and noticed her makeshift splint wasn't on. The rope and bat were lying next to my head.

  The convict changed his course to follow her. I grabbed the bat and used it as a cane.

  "Hey! Hey, goddammit, over here!" I shakily yelled, hunching my weight on my right arm.

  "I've got the gift, remember?"

  The convict turned back to me with a grimace and squeezed off another shot. It pierced straight through my left side, flapping up my black long coat with another explosion of blood. Stammering backwards with the shot, I yelped in pain. I nearly toppled to my knees, but managed to keep myself propped up with the bat. Pain throbbed from the gunshot wound and spread though my body. I pushed past it. I could be a target for him. I would survive it. I turned up to look at him again and quivered as I rose to my feet. Blood seeped into my eyes and dripped into my mouth. I wasn't sure if it was falling from me or returning to my wounds.

  "Not quite enough, convict," I shouted as I picked up speed and walked towards him.

  He was wrestling with reloading the barrels, pulling out a pile of shells from his pocket. I stuffed the rope Amber left into my coat pocket and ambled into a jog. I charged at him with the wooden bat waving. The orange light drenched us and revealed his face. His neck was patched up with old rags that were duct-taped in place. He was in disarray; every inch of his body appeared aggrieved, but those injuries didn't hinder him as he loaded the shotgun.

  The butt of the gun was nestled into his armpit. I could see patchwork stitching in the shoulder of his coat were it had been torn open. My little body rammed into his huge frame as he cocked the butt of the gun into place. The force rattled me more than him. He merely shifted his feet, but that was all I needed. The convict raised the shotgun up to my head and fired. The explosion ripped through the atmosphere. My head rocked to the side as the bullet whizzed by, barely missing. I wasn't sure if a shot to the head would heal and I wasn't going to find out. The smoke cleared and I was a foot away from him. I leapt and swung the bat with all my might.

  It connected firmly with his face and sent him spiraling down from the platform to the tracks. I stood, mouth agape in amazement that I had hit him that hard. Rolling and crunching over the rocks and rails, his colossal body entangled in the barbed wire fence that divided the tracks. I scanned around for Amber but couldn't see her. God, I hoped she had made it to the hospital.

  Leaping down to the tracks, I pulled out the rope. The convict, in his struggle, managed to bind his arms behind him in the razor wire. I propped the bat underneath his chin and jumped behind him. Tying the rope around his hands, I worked the rest of it along his chest and looped it around both ends of the bat, and then led it back to his hands. I wanted to leave no room for error. I stood back and analyzed my handiwork, frowned, then leaned in to tighten the slack around his neck.

  I stepped back again and smiled. A quick convulsion hit me, but I barely felt it. The pain that had been splitting through my head returned and planted itself squarely in my forehead.

  Leaning over and picking up the shotgun, I could feel my wounds stirring and pulling my spilt blood back into me. It was more painful than ever before, stinging with frigidity as the wounds closed themselves. I felt a little woozy. I wondered if all my blood had come back.

  The convict was tightly wound in rope and barbed wire with a baseball ball lodged against his throat. I stepped up to the platform, turned and pointed the gun down at him. He continued to struggle free but to no avail. His efforts slowed once his eyes finally fluttered open, recovering from his blind fury, to see the end of a double barrel.

  "Be careful," I warned condescendingly. "I think I'm getting the hang of beating you now. And I don't think you'll be able to find me with a slug in your head."

  "Give her back," he gurgled.

  "She's not your wife," I barked, leaning in and bringing the shotgun close to his face. The gun grew heavy.

  "You cannot win. I will get her back. Once I do, I will reach into your chest and pull the gift from your ribcage."

  "What's the point anymore, convict? You're dead and I keep on healing. No-one can win here,"

  I pleaded. "This it futile. We'll be locked in a never-ending battle."

  "The point is Veronica and I will kill you to get to her back," the convict stated, not willing to give an inch if it meant any harm to his wife.

  "You know what, I'm fucking done with you, you're impossible." I rammed the barrel into his eyes and pulled the trigger. One last pain split down the middle of my head right when I fired. My arms jerked under the agony and threw me off target. The blast rang out near his head but not into it.

  I cursed. Then I pulled the trigger again and the gun clicked. Nothing happened. I realized the gun needed reloading and the rest of the shells were in his pocket.

  My misfired shot apparently hadn't missed completely; it had opened a hole in his left shoulder and cheek. I hadn't the slightest idea how to finish him. I searched around for any kind of weapon and found none. All I discovered was a nearby sewer. I sighed, tossed the shotgun to the ground and tugged off the heavy manhole cover.

  While straining with the weight of the cover, I looked up to see a train coming from the distance. I slid the cover to the cement as the train laid on the horn. With the speed it was traveling, it wasn't stopping at this station.

  It was an express by my guess. I left the manhole cover and stood before him with a smile. The last of my blood streamed back into me as my wounds mended while I crouched on the platform, gazing at the convict's tangled body. This could be it; this could be the end of him. Blinding me with the head light, I could see that it was a freight train.

  "You ready to die?" I asked him.

  The convict choked as he struggled with the rope and the barbed wire. He didn't even look at the train as it blared at him. His face turned blue as the bat across his throat crushed his esophagus. I wondered if this maniacal joy I felt was how he felt when he thought he had me dead to rights.

  The train blared its horn one more time and then barreled down on him. The train cars clunked methodically by, breaking the still of the night. I tried to watch between the speeding wheels, as I tossed the shotgun down the sewer, to see if he was still in one piece. Time and the train gusted past and left nothing but a bloody stain. The rope and the bat remained but he was gone, leaving no shreds of clothing or limbs as evidence to his end.

  "Christ!" I sighed in frustration. "This will go on forever."

  Standing like a statue on the platform my wounds finished calling all my blood back home and healing my wounds, when the painful rift in my head pounded and squealed loudly in my ears. The gift joined it and climbed up my throat. They were either working in unison or the gift was reeling in pain from it. I couldn't tell.

  Then it hit me, harder than the stab wound, harder than any blow the convict landed on me. The shredding headache manifested into an agonizing realization. The gift had been trying to tell me something, trying to tell all of us who lived with it, about a dark secret.

&nbs
p; "Oh great," I sighed. "Something more terrible than holding the light? Or the similarities between Amber and Veronica? God, what else?!"

  I strained but just couldn't understand it. It was garbled in my head. It felt like a complicated puzzle that I might never decipher. Shaking my head at yet another damned mystery to unravel, I ran. I tried to outrun the riddles and the convict, all the way down the tracks towards home. Wanting to sprint to the hospital to see if Amber was all right, I realized that the convict, if still alive, would follow me right to her.