The Nightmare Frontier

by Stephen Mark Rainey

  Copeland shook his head in surprise. “Talked to them?”

  Joshua laughed boisterously. “Yeah, talked to ’em. Me, I done that. They told me what they doing here and why. So anything Major Martin knew, or thought he knew, well, that was just bullshit. I know, mister smart man. I know.”

  “Joshua…even if you were able to communicate with them…they’re not human. They couldn’t possibly think like humans. They kill people. How could you have faith in them?”

  The homely creature again leaned into Copeland’s face, his eyes hotter than burning embers. “What matters that they kill? Getting rid of pitiful, useless garbage, that’s all they doing. You wouldn’t know nothing about that, would you? They getting rid of them what took my daddy away and got ’im killed, that beat down my granddaddy cause he never went to their churches or their schools. He’s just as good as any of them—better’n them!—but they hurt him. They hurt him so bad. They hurt all of us. Now he’s just getting a piece of what he always deserved. For his family. All for his family. And for my ma—” Joshua suddenly fell silent and scowled thoughtfully; then he abruptly took the knife and ran its blade along Copeland’s jawline, drawing blood. Shocked, Copeland bit back a yelp, the pain hot and jarring, but still manageable. He swallowed hard.

  “What about your mother, Joshua?”

  “I didn’t say nothing about my mama.”

  He tried to inject some compassion in his voice. “You were treated unfairly, so you’re looking to punish the guilty. But what about the innocent, Joshua? What about everyone else who’s getting hurt?”

  Joshua appeared to calm somewhat. “Ain’t no one innocent in this town. So they gonna die. All of ’em.”

  “It’s not all about your grandfather, is it, Joshua? Tell me about your mother.”

  “Weren’t never anything wrong with my mother. You don’t even talk about her. You say one more word about my mama, and I’m gonna cut out your tongue.” He paused and bowed his head for a moment, as if in deep thought. When he looked at Copeland again, his face split into a wide grin, and he said, “Know what? I’m tired of talking to you anyway.”

  With that, he suddenly gripped the back of Copeland’s neck in one hand and began to squeeze, just behind his jaw. He gasped, and as his mouth opened, Joshua quickly slipped the knife between his teeth, nicking his tongue. He began to apply pressure with the blade, using its flat edge to force Copeland’s jaw wider.

  “No more talking, mister smart man. Yeah, I think I’ll just cut your tongue right out. We’ll see how you like talking then.”

  Positioning himself behind him, Joshua slid his arm around Copeland’s head and tugged it backward, forcing his mouth open, despite his most valiant effort to lock his jaw. The blade against his teeth prevented him from clamping down, and Joshua began to work the knife inward, its blade biting the inside of his cheek. Realizing with horror there was nothing he could do to thwart his bloodthirsty captor, he thrashed violently, rocking the chair back and forth, hoping now just to buy a few more moments.

  “You son of bitch.”

  For a second, everything went completely still and silent. Then, suddenly, the knife fell from his mouth, and the arm encircling his head drew away quickly. He heard a heavy thud, and Joshua’s body struck the chair, nearly upending him. Craning his head around, he saw Doug McAllister clutching a shotgun, which he had obviously just used as a club. The brutish figure on the floor started to scramble toward his attacker, but McAllister brought the butt squarely down on his head, laying him out on the hardwood surface. With a groan, Joshua covered his head with his hands and lay still.

  For good measure, McAllister’s foot lashed out and connected solidly with Joshua’s kidneys. He screeched in anguish, wrapped his arms around his abdomen, and tried to roll away, but the shotgun came down again and whacked him solidly on his bony forehead. This time when he went motionless, blood began to pool on the floor beneath his temple.

  “Jesus,” McAllister whispered, taking in the sight of his bound friend. “Hold still, I’ll untie you.”

  “Levi took her,” Copeland groaned, spitting blood on the floor. “I couldn’t stop him.”

  “We’ll get her back. Don’t fret. Right now, let’s take care of you.” He worked at the knots for a time, futilely, and finally said, “I’m gonna have to cut this. Hold still.” Retrieving Joshua’s knife, he used the bloodstained blade to saw through the cord. When it fell away, Copeland’s arms dropped limply to his sides, dead from the shoulders down. He swung his shoulders back and forth for a minute, gradually getting the blood circulating again.

  “You’re very late.”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t be helped.” McAllister leaned close to Copeland’s face. “Damn, man. You must’ve pissed that bastard off right royally. Way to go. But he’s cut you good. That cheek could use some stitches. The jaw’s not so bad. I got a first-aid kit in the truck we can patch you up with. If there’s no bandages, I got duct tape.”

  “I’ve always sworn by duct tape.”

  “Come on, let’s get you into the bathroom and cleaned up.” He helped Copeland to his feet, bracing his arm to make sure he didn’t fall.

  “What about him?”

  McAllister regarded the fallen figure for several seconds, tossed the knife in the air, and caught it by the haft. “Maybe we should just kill him.” He eyed Copeland questioningly. “What do you think?”

  He fought down the acid rage that crept up his throat as he gazed at his former tormentor. “He deserves death. A little while ago, I was ready to kill the lot of them. Now, though…I’m not so sure it sits right with me.”

  “When he comes to, he’ll be madder than hell. We can’t just let him go free.”

  “No. That we can’t do.”

  McAllister pondered the point for a moment; then his face turned rock-hard as he made his decision. Kneeling, he rolled up the fallen man’s pants legs, exposing his ankles and lower calves. Then, with the serrated blade, he cut deeply into one of his hamstrings, releasing a rich red flow of blood. Joshua cried out loudly and suddenly began to thrash; undaunted, McAllister deftly cut the tendon of the other leg, then neatly rolled down his trouser legs before stepping away. A whimpering sound came from Joshua’s throat, and he rolled onto his back, tears streaming from his eyes. Copeland grimaced and felt an unexpected pang of guilt, despite his satisfaction that this was nothing more than simple justice. “Jesus, Candle,” he whispered.

  “I suppose he might bleed to death,” McAllister said flippantly. “But knowing him, he’ll figure out a way to stop it before then. Entirely up to him.”

  Copeland nodded and put a hand to his throbbing cheek. His fingers came away slick and red, and all traces of guilt vanished. McAllister took up a lantern and led him to the bathroom, where he insisted on cleaning his own cuts with the frigid water.

  “Back in a second.” McAllister disappeared and soon returned with all the guns. “Wanted to make sure he couldn’t get to any of these.”

  Copeland splashed a handful of water onto his cheek and patted it gingerly with his fingers. “So what happened to you? We were afraid you’d bought it.”

  Just then, below, the front door creaked slowly open. McAllister called out, “Carolyn?”

  “Yes,” came her soft voice.

  “Up here.”

  A moment later, she appeared at the bathroom door, her face ashen, but her eyes relieved to see her husband safe. When they fell on Copeland’s face, she gasped. “God, what happened?”

  “Joshua Barrow happened.”

  “Where is he?”

  McAllister pointed to the master bedroom. “Do not go in there. I’ve hurt him, but he may still be dangerous.”

  She placed a concerned hand on Copeland’s shoulder. “I’ve got some ibuprofen in my purse—in the truck. I can get it for you.”

  “The first-aid kit should be in the back. Grab it, will you?” She nodded and started down the stairs again. “Watch yourself out there,” McAllister called
after her.

  “I will.”

  He looked appraisingly at Copeland’s cheek. “The cut’s pretty clean, so if you don’t do anything to make it worse, it’ll heal up okay.”

  “Thanks. So, Candle, what’s your story?”

  “You know, after all we’d seen tonight, I thought I had prepared myself for what we might run into. Shit.” He clicked his tongue. “Everything was completely changed, just north of our house. We drove for hours, got into woods and such that I’ve never seen before, and kept ending up back at the same place. It was beyond freaky. I’ve never felt so completely…lost.”

  “It must have changed after we passed through. It’s enough to drive you insane if you think about it.”

  “At least we didn’t see any of those creatures—not up close, anyway. But there were lots of lights in the sky, all rushing back the way they came from earlier.”

  “Really?” Copeland bit his lip. “Interesting.”

  “Then, out of the blue, everything returned to normal. We were on some strange road, in deep woods, and then…suddenly…I knew where we were again. And that’s how we made it here—just in time, by the look of things.”

  “Another minute, and we wouldn’t be talking together now.” His stomach quivered at the thought of the cruel torture—and death—he had very narrowly escaped. “By the way…do you know anything about Joshua’s mother?”

  McAllister raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

  “Seemed to be a sore point with him.”

  “Well, go figure. Word’s always been that his mother was his daddy’s sister. She died when he and Levi were kids.”

  Copeland grimaced. “I see. Well, I guess that fits.”

  They heard the front door open and close again, and soon Carolyn reappeared, carrying a floral scarf and a small, blue and white plastic box. “Not much in here, but at least there’s gauze, tape, and peroxide,” she said.

  “That’ll do nicely,” McAllister said. “Now, you mind taking over here? I’d better make sure whosit’s not getting into any mischief.”

  She nodded, opened the kit, and handed a roll of surgical tape to Copeland. “Hold this.” He complied, while she knelt to sort through the contents of the box. Taking a small bottle of peroxide, she soaked one end of the scarf, which she used to dab away the blood on Copeland’s face. The sudden sting nearly caused him to reel, but he managed to hold still for her. She took a few squares of sterile gauze, pressed them over his wound, and said, “Pull off a couple of pieces of tape, will you? I need to secure these.”

  Copeland did, and once she had taped the gauze firmly in place, she handed him a handful of pills, which he placed on his tongue. He was just chasing them down with water from the tap when the shattering report of McAllister’s shotgun caused them both to jump nearly out of their skins.

  Carolyn leaped toward the bedroom door, but her husband stepped out, his shotgun muzzle dribbling smoke. He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’m all right. Everything’s all right.” To Copeland’s questioning glance, he said, “The son of bitch wanted to cut me. Had a nice shard of glass from the window in his hand. Guess he didn’t feel at home without a blade of some sort.”

  “You shot him?” Carolyn asked, her eyes widening.

  “Graveyard dead. He made to lunge at me, and damned if I was going to dick around with him any further. Far as I’m concerned, that’s one less piece of shit to contend with.”

  “Oh, Doug,” she said with a distraught sigh. “Did you have to?”

  “You know I did.”

  Copeland shook his head in near-disbelief, a little rattled, but unwilling to waste a moment of remorse on that twisted wretch. He pressed the flimsy bandage tight against his throbbing cheek and felt blood dribble down his jaw. “Time’s wasting,” he said. “I’ve got to get to Debra. There’s no telling what’s going on out there now.”

  “Well, it’s a sure bet where she is. There’s only one place Levi would take her.”

  “I can’t ask either of you to go there with me. The chances of surviving…” He swallowed hard. “Well, they’re not good.”

  “Debra is my friend too,” Carolyn said, somewhat defensively, as she repacked the first-aid kit. “Yeah, your chances are lousy by yourself. I say the more of us the better.”

  “We all go. That’s just how it’s going to be,” McAllister said. He handed the Remington and the 9mm to Copeland, and Debra’s rifle and .38 to Carolyn. “It’s probably safe to say they won’t be expecting us. So let’s get to it. I’ll get the flashlights and the other lantern.”

  He disappeared into the bedroom for a minute, while Copeland pulled on his heavy coat. As they started down the stairs, McAllister leading, Copeland found his legs barely able to support his weight. He was still in shock, his body exhausted and in pain, his emotions wrung out. “For all we know,” he muttered, “by the time we get there, the Lumeras may have finished them all off. Debra too.”

  “Don’t be morbid,” Carolyn said.

  McAllister glanced back thoughtfully at him. “Major Martin was pretty sure of what he was talking about, wasn’t he?”

  “Everything he told us has proven true.”

  As they went out into the dark night, Copeland immediately noticed that the air, though chilly, was distinctly warmer than before. A low breeze still stirred the trees, causing the bare branches to click ominously together—like chattering teeth, he thought. He could vaguely make out the silhouette of the pickup truck parked behind the Durango, and as he walked, he again felt himself somewhere outside his body, his limbs moving automatically, the pain a dull, distant sensation that meant little to him. He felt no hope, no despair; as long as he kept moving forward, continued functioning, he needed no other purpose. Even his fear for Debra seemed a remote, abstract thing, sizzling somewhere deep inside the body to which he barely felt connected.

  “Better just take the one vehicle. Don’t want to chance getting separated. You can squeeze in up front with us or ride in the back, whichever you prefer.”

  “I’ll take the back.”

  “If they come after us, you’ll be completely exposed.”

  “That much easier to shoot back.” He hauled himself into the back of the pickup, which was loaded with boxes and bundles—the supplies meant to sustain them while they holed up at the cabin. He found a couple of blankets he could sit on, and settled himself behind the cab, his rifle across his lap, the handguns tucked into his belt in easy reach. McAllister opened the sliding panel in the rear window so they could hear each other and cranked the engine. As they started down the rutted drive, Copeland noticed a dull, orange glow behind the cabin—there, next to the little outbuilding—but before his eyes could focus on it, the light vanished.

  “Damnation,” he said. “I think one of those things is still here. If they really do communicate with each other, we may have just lost the element of surprise.”

  “Nothing for us but to damn the torpedoes,” McAllister replied. “And hope we don’t end up on the lunar surface somewhere along the way.”

  The truck bumped and jolted heavily down the long driveway, and Copeland had to hold onto the side of the truck to keep from bouncing right out of the back. Once they hit pavement, the going became smoother, and he was able to focus his attention on the dark, passing trees, alert for any sign of pursuit. McAllister was driving with his lights on, but that no longer seemed to matter; if the Lumeras desired to find them, they would; simple as that. Despite the rise in temperature, the wind still whipped him with a bone-numbing chill, and he tucked his hands beneath his armpits to keep them warm.

  McAllister took the curves at dangerous speeds, but Copeland trusted his friend’s skill and good fortune. Hell, they had already surmounted impossible odds to get this far; if there was a chance of getting through this, he was with the right people to do it. Gradually, he began to feel reconnected with his body, and now, for the first time in a long time, he found himself praying earnestly—not for himself
and his friends; the worst that could happen to them was death—but for Debra, whose fate lay in the hands of a lovesick madman.

  Chapter 19

  The darkness of the cellar had never particularly frightened Malachi, but with them worm things coming and going as they pleased, you never knew where one might pop up—and he sure didn’t like the idea of bumping into one unexpectedly. Nor did he care for the shuddersome, thorny vine-things that seemed to be slowly taking over the house. If them critters didn’t take a liking to the house’s proper occupants, what was to stop them from just killing everybody and doing as they pleased? That’s what was happening everywhere else, wasn’t it? Great-Granddaddy had taken to sleeping like the dead now, and Malachi was beginning to have his doubts that he was gonna ever wake up again. The old man kept looking paler and paler, his body wasting away a little more every hour he stayed asleep. His old boastfulness about how good they were gonna have it didn’t seem quite so reassuring anymore, not when he wouldn’t wake up no matter what was going on around him.

  Even his own daddy had gotten worrisome lately, what with his temper getting so short—probably cause he was just as nervous as any of them over their changing circumstances—and his being gone almost all the time. Malachi chafed at the idea of his old man putting Ms. Harrington in the cellar and then telling him to make sure she stayed there—leaving only them Lumeras upstairs with Great-Granddaddy now. His daddy obviously didn’t much like that idea either, but he must have figured it was more important for Malachi to watch over Miz Harrington than the sleeping old man. He sure hated to see her tied up like this, since she had always been right kind to him. Well, if not kind, then fair, at least.

  But he didn’t dare cross his daddy. He’d known that all his young life, but God help him, if he upset Daddy now he might just get fed to them ones. And that was just about the most awful thing he could imagine, cause he’d seen what happened to that little schoolboy when the Lumera got him.

  All chewed up and burnt.

  “Malachi…are you there?” The faint voice quivered out of the darkness.