The Nightmare Frontier

by Stephen Mark Rainey

  “I don’t know,” she said, barely above a whisper. “It might.”

  She began to slow the Durango as they rounded a long curve to the left. A few moments later, on the right, he saw a break in the trees, with only dark, empty space between them. But as Debra pulled into it, he briefly glimpsed the silhouette of a mailbox beside the road. The vehicle ascended at a snail’s pace into the pitch-black abyss, bouncing violently on the rutted, uneven surface, Debra surely driving by memory and intuition. On and on they went, and several times, low-hanging branches rattled over the top of the SUV. How they avoided slamming into the close-pressing tree trunks, he could scarcely fathom.

  Five minutes later, the darkness ahead changed subtly, becoming somehow heavier and more voluminous. A glimmer of sky appeared behind a canopy of dense, tangled tree limbs, and his eyes gradually made out the angled roof of a small structure just ahead. Debra stopped the Durango and cut the engine. As its rumble faded, Copeland listened carefully before taking hold of the door handle; outside, only a low, eerily whispering wind broke the silence. Finally, he pushed open the door and slid out, his rifle instantly in hand and probing the darkness around him. No other sounds drifted to his ears; not the melancholy songs of night birds nor the chirping of insects. He grabbed the six-volt flashlight McAllister had given him, and with a twinge of apprehension turned it on, shining its beam at their surroundings.

  The two-story, chalet-style structure seemed a natural extension of the trees, having been built right into a small clearing. Pine boughs overhung the roof, and smaller maples pressed close against the wooden walls and the railing of the little front porch. The building appeared sound, all the visible windows intact, the solid oak front door tightly closed. The flashlight beam revealed a small outbuilding a short distance behind the house on the left, which he guessed was a work shed.

  “So, Carolyn’s parents lived here?”

  “Ever since she was a little girl. Doug thinks they should have sold it, but she doesn’t want to part with it. In a way, I don’t blame her. I can’t imagine not having Mom and Dad’s place…” She suddenly stopped, and Copeland knew her mind had returned to a place they could not afford to have it go just now.

  “Candle said there was no electricity here. No generator?” he asked.

  “Where do you think they got theirs?”

  “I see.” He stepped up to the front porch, and he could smell the faint, sweet aroma of cedar and perhaps woodsmoke. It was a heady, exhilarating scent, which drew him completely out of the moment and returned him to carefree, innocent times from his youth, when the smell signified warmth and security as cold weather closed in. But then he shook himself, knowing that he, too, could afford only to be here and now, and on guard.

  From her pocket, Debra withdrew the keys Carolyn had given her and unlocked the front door. She pushed it open and started to walk in, but Copeland stopped her to shine his light before them. He saw only an empty living room, the few remaining items of furniture covered by dusty white sheets. To the right, there was a broad, stone fireplace, clean but for a couple of years’ worth of dust; to the left, a door opened to a hallway and the other rooms. No pictures or other decorations hung on the bare wooden walls. Lots of cobwebs.

  “I guess pizza delivery is right out,” he said, finally stepping inside, leading with his rifle. She followed closely, peering into the night for a long moment before closing the door. “See something?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No.” She reached into her borrowed coat and withdrew a package of Saltine crackers and a handful of plastic-wrapped caramels. “We have these to eat. That’s all Carolyn had time to grab for us before we bolted out of there.”

  He went through the door to the hall, shone the flashlight into each door he passed. The first one was a half bath, but he remembered McAllister telling him he’d have to turn on the water; hopefully he could find the control valve without difficulty. Also on this floor were two completely empty bedrooms, a small den, and the kitchen. Making his way upstairs, he found a full bath and two more bedrooms, the larger one obviously the master; the bed frame had been removed, but a mattress and set of box springs wrapped in clear plastic leaned against one wall. The room spanned the width of the upstairs, with windows facing both the front and the back of the cabin; beneath the rear window, he could dimly see a shingled canopy above the back kitchen door.

  “I say we set ourselves up in here. Only one door, so it’s the most easily defensible. If we have to get out in a hurry, we can go through the back window and drop onto the canopy down there.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Plus it’s a tad warmer up here than below.”

  He realized she was right. During the day, the house would have absorbed the heat from the sunlight, and the cold air had yet to displace it completely. “We’d better sleep in shifts. One of us needs to be awake at all times.”

  “I don’t mind taking the first watch.”

  “I don’t think I could sleep if you put that gun to my head. I’ll stay up.”

  “Whatever,” she said with a shrug. “Carolyn said their sleeping bags are in the back of the Durango. At least we’ll stay fairly warm. Those two are happy to camp in the bleak midwinter.”

  “Okay. Let’s go get them together. I don’t want us to be separated at any time—especially going outside.”

  She gave him a curt salute. “Yessir.”

  “Come on then.”

  They went back out to the Durango and found, in addition to the sleeping bags, a pair of Coleman lanterns, extra fuel, a couple of boxes of strike-anywhere matches, and a camping stove. Quickly, they grabbed the goods, closed up the SUV, and hurried back inside, grateful for the little warmth it offered.

  “That wind’s getting colder,” she said as they climbed the stairs. “This change is definitely affecting the weather. It’s never been this cold at this time of year.”

  “I expect it’s adapting to the Lumeras’ climate. It must be.”

  Once they had placed their gear on the floor, Copeland went to the windows, closed the Venetian blinds that still hung upon them, and lit the lanterns, which painted the dark-stained walls warm gold. Debra began to unroll the sleeping bags, while he lowered the mattress and box springs to the floor and slid them to the rear corner of the room, just beneath the window. As they piled the sleeping bags on the mattress, a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes fell out from one of them. She picked it up.

  “Want one?”

  “Don’t smoke.”

  “I haven’t in ten years or so. You know what? I bet having one now isn’t going to kill me.” She opened the pack, drew out a cigarette, and looked at it thoughtfully for a moment. “I bitched at your sister for years to quit. She just didn’t want to. She enjoyed them too much.” Debra struck a match, lit the smoke, and inhaled deeply. Copeland smiled as she made a sick-looking face.

  “Laugh all you want to. Smoke one with me.”

  “That’s all right. Really.”

  “Smoke.” She tossed him the pack. Because she wished it, he took one out, put it between his lips, and lit it.

  The smoke tasted vile, and he just puffed on it, rather than inhaling it. But for whatever reason, the very act of smoking the thing took the edge off his fear, soothed his jangling nerves as if it were a sedative. He drew in a shallow lungful of smoke and exhaled quickly. It burned his throat a little, but he didn’t start coughing.

  “Feels better now, doesn’t it?” she asked.

  “Yeah. A little better.”

  “You never smoked?”

  “Yeah, actually I did. In high school. I didn’t enjoy it, though.”

  “Peer pressure?”

  “Well…Candle could be persuasive sometimes.”

  There was a long silence. “You don’t think they’re going to get here alive, do you?”

  He bit his lip and then shook his head. “I’d say the odds are long.” He went to the front window, pulled the blinds aside for a moment, and peered into the dar
kness. “Black as pitch. Can’t even see the lights from town here.”

  Debra came to his side. “If anyone can make it, they can. You saw him back there. He’s fast and just about fearless. And Carolyn’s no slouch. A little high-strung, but she’s tough as hell. I expect I’d trust my life to her.”

  He gazed into her deep, liquid brown eyes. So much life there, he thought, even after the day’s hellish ordeals.

  “He was always a character in our younger days. Doesn’t seem to have changed much. We could be real troublemakers back then. He was the ringleader, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  He closed the blinds and tossed his butt into the empty fireplace. “You should get some sleep. I’ll see if I can find a chair so I can sit by the window.”

  She nodded, and he picked up the flashlight, figuring that they were safe enough to leave her alone for just a few moments. Surely, among the sheet-covered furniture in the living room he could locate a chair of some sort. He went down the stairs, but before making his way to the front of the house, he decided to find the water valve. He went back to the kitchen, which had been stripped of all its appliances—and there it was, a metal knob next to the back door. At first, he thought it must be frozen because it sure as hell didn’t want to budge. But finally, after several determined tries, he was able to turn it, and soon he heard the gratifying hissing and clicking sounds of water passing through the pipes. He tested the kitchen faucet; after a couple of coughs, clear water began to pour freely—near freezing, but clean. He stopped in the bathroom to make sure it also worked, then he went on to the living room where, sure enough, he found a warped but sturdy Boston rocker. He awkwardly maneuvered it up the stairs, banging it noisily against the wall a couple of times, prompting him to mutter “Dammit” a few times under his breath.

  “Let’s not knock the house down,” Debra said as he brought the chair in and placed it next to the front window. She had removed her coat and was just taking off her shoes; the lantern on the floor cast her shadow, long and tall, on the wall behind her. She was wearing blue jeans and a wine-colored turtleneck sweater, and the golden light flattered her lithe figure. He turned away from her, pushed aside the blinds again, and peered sightlessly through the glass; behind him, he heard her sliding into the sleeping bag on top of the mattress.

  “I have an idea,” he said. Going to the camping stove, he picked it up and carried it to the door to the stairwell. He stood the stove on one end and propped it against the closed door. “We don’t have an immediate use for this. This’ll give us at least a few seconds’ alarm if someone manages to get inside without us knowing it.”

  “Good.”

  “If we survive till tomorrow, we can better fortify this place.”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ve got water now, by the way.”

  “You may actually be useful after all.”

  “You want the lights off? Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “No, I don’t want them off. Probably better if they are, though.”

  He flipped on his flashlight, then extinguished the two lanterns. He knelt next to her, leaned down, and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m sure I’ll be awake the rest of the night. You sleep as much as you can. I’m here with the guns, and you’re safe. Nothing’s going to bother you.”

  She gave him a smile tinged with sadness. “Thank you, Russ. But I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again.”

  “Try.”

  “If I do, you’ll wake me if Doug and Carolyn get here?”

  “Sure.” He rose, went to his chair, and sat down with his rifle propped against the windowsill. He adjusted a few of the slats so he could see out without opening them all the way, then switched off the flashlight. The darkness fell over them like a cerement.

  Her voice drifted to his ears. “If you want them, those crackers and caramels are in my coat pocket. You’re welcome to them.”

  His stomach felt horribly empty, but the thought of food still made him slightly queasy. “Maybe later,” he said. “Or maybe we can have them for breakfast.”

  “Okay.”

  He sat back in the rocker, which creaked slightly. To keep from disturbing her, he sat as still as he could, his eyes locked on the narrow gaps in the blinds. His ears, sensitized by his near-total deprivation of sight, picked up her low, regular breathing, and he thought she might have actually drifted right off to sleep. He found himself remarkably comfortable in the old chair, and a couple of times, his own eyes closed and barely opened again when he willed them to.

  Damn, he wanted a drink.

  He let himself focus on the annoying absence of good scotch rather than anything else. No way could he contemplate the future; not tomorrow, not even the next hour. He didn’t dare think about the lovely young woman lying in the darkness just a few feet away, or about the things that lurked in the evil night, very possibly searching for her, or the fact that their friends had not shown up by now. Only screaming insanity could result from thinking about anything other than how very damn badly he wanted a scotch.

  Scotch on the rocks. Scotch with a twist. Scotch with a splash of spring water.

  Christ on a bicycle.

  Something flashed in the darkness outside the window. Instantly, his heart a jackhammer, he leaned forward, rifle in his hands. He peered desperately through the onyx glass, cocked his ears to catch the faintest noise anywhere in the night. The low breeze still whispered softly past the panes, but not one other sound rose above it.

  One of those things in the sky, he thought. A long way off. A long, long way off.

  Endless minutes passed, and nothing else appeared. The night remained as empty as the void of outer space, and eventually, he began to relax again. He sat back in his chair, which creaked softly again.

  “What’s wrong, Russ?”

  He glanced into the darkness in her direction. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Okay.”

  Minutes of silence almost convinced him that she had relaxed and maybe drifted off again.

  “Russ?”

  “Yes?”

  “If they come, you won’t be able to stop them.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Come hold me.”

  His heart froze and his stomach fluttered. He propped the rifle against the windowsill again, rose from his chair, and carefully made his way toward her bed. When his foot touched the box springs, he knelt slowly, and he heard her shifting in her sleeping bag. One of her hands touched his arm; he took her hand and let her guide him onto the mattress. He heard her unzipping her sleeping bag, and he took a moment to shed his coat and shoes. Then he carefully maneuvered himself next to her, slipping one arm beneath her head as she made room in the warm sleeping bag for him to slide his legs inside. She pressed herself close to him, wrapping an arm around his chest and one leg around his. He smelled the sweet, citrus scent of her hair and felt the soft caress of her breath on his throat.

  They lay in each other’s embrace for several minutes, comfortably warm, his heart still pounding but less troubled than it had been for seemingly forever. Finally, she pulled away from him a little, letting a draft of cool air pass between their bodies. Then her lips touched his, delicately and tentatively. She pressed her body hard against his, and their lips locked together, their tongues exploring each other’s with almost desperate intensity.

  He rolled so that his body covered hers, and one of his hands closed on her breast, soft and firm beneath the ribbed fabric of her sweater. Their hands roved high and low, first tenderly, then more passionately, one’s lips never leaving the other’s. As her pelvis began to thrust against his, he felt himself hardening unmercifully behind the constricting denim. One of her hands slipped between their bodies and unfastened her jeans, and she shifted her hips rhythmically back and forth to work her way out of them. Moving her fingers to his belt, she deftly unbuckled it, and then began to work at his fly. He lowered one
hand to her rounded rear end and gently massaged it, slipping his fingers beneath her panties and gradually working them farther between her legs. She moaned softly, breathing into his mouth, and he shifted his head, touching his lips to the soft flesh just beneath her ear and tracing the line of her jaw with his tongue. Now she had worked his jeans down over his hips and was pulling him harder against her, again wrapping her legs around his, entrapping him with her body.

  Her lips went to his ear, and with cruel coldness, she said, “If they come for us now, the .38 is right beside me.”

  He looked into the dark space that concealed her eyes. “What if we survive another fifty years?”

  Her fierce grip on him relaxed and became tender again. “Then we’ll remember this for as long as we live.”

  Day Four

  Chapter 18

  It was still pitch dark when Copeland opened his eyes again. He was holding Debra in a protective embrace, one hand tucked warmly between her legs. She was breathing softly, rhythmically, her head cradled by his shoulder and biceps. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, what time it was, or how long since he’d moved; his arm had gone numb, so he carefully shifted position, freeing his arm so that blood could begin flowing to his fingers again. Cold air slipped spitefully into the new space between them, and she stirred restlessly but did not wake. He shivered, his body still enervated from their coupling. He would have been content to lie there with her endlessly but for a low scratching sound on the mattress, which he soon realized was the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

  Remaining perfectly still and listening, he heard only Debra’s low breathing and the clamorous thumping of his own heart. Not a speck of light broke the perfect darkness. Except for the insistence of his trusty internal alarm, nothing seemed out of place around them.

  The wind. The wind had finally stopped blowing.

  Maybe that’s all it was.

  He tried to make out Debra’s face just in front of his, but even that was impossible. In spite of his growing disquiet, he could not help feeling exhilarated after having made love to her so fully and completely. He had never experienced such a bonding with any woman; certainly not the lunatic Megan. And her sharing with him…so deep, so passionate.