by Dan Wells
“Huh,” she said, walking past me and pulling down a box of cereal. “I realize you’re not as emotional as most people, but still—your girlfriend died yesterday. Seems a little early, I think, don’t you?”
Crap. “That’s why it’s not really a date,” I said. “We’re just heading out to … talk about it, try to come to terms with it. You know.”
“Yeah,” she said, nodding, though I could tell she didn’t mean it. “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
“What about you?” I asked, desperate to change the subject. “You doing anything tonight?”
“Lauren and I are going shopping, actually.” She poured her cereal into a bowl and opened the fridge to get the milk. I relaxed and tuned her out. “We had a pretty good talk the other night, before the movie and the…” she waved her hand “… the police station. Turns out she hates buying groceries because she doesn’t know where the good deals are. We’re going to go together and see what we can find.”
“Great,” I said, only barely listening. “I’ll see you later then.”
“Not too late,” she said.
“Yeah.” I stood up. “It won’t take long.” I grabbed my jacket and backpack and headed for the door.
“Goodbye John,” she said. “Have a good day.”
I waved.
“I love you, John.”
“Yeah,” I said, walking out the door. People keep saying that.
* * *
School passed in a blur, an endless string of droning teachers and sad, consoling students. “We’re so sorry about Marci.” “She was a wonderful person, and we all miss her.” “You’re very brave, coming back to school so soon.” I didn’t feel brave, I felt numb. I felt cold. I felt tired.
I’d spent the whole night in my car with a screwdriver and a pair of bolt cutters, peeling back the paneling and cutting away the cables for each lock and window. The exterior handles worked, but if someone got stuck inside they’d be trapped. I was lucky my car was that old—something with power locks and electric windows would have been nearly impossible to sabotage. I guess that’s a good safety feature on the new cars, I thought. If something happens to the doors, like on mine, these old cars can be a death trap.
Bells rang, crowds buzzed, halls filled and emptied, filled and emptied. The sun in the sky was cold and white, like a disk of ice. I drifted through the school like a ghost, silent and somber and dead. When the final bell rang I trudged out to my car, drove to the gas station, and filled four five-gallon cans with gas. Twenty gallons. Enough to run our huge riding snowblower through several major storms. Enough to light a very, very big fire. I pushed all thoughts and emotions away—all my nervousness, all my fear, all my sorrow. I am a sociopath. I am a machine. I am a gust of wind: nameless, faceless, and blameless.
I put three cans of gas in the backseat, lids off, next to several boxes of old magazines I’d stolen from Father Erikson’s house. The last can went in the trunk, next to a narrow funnel I’d stolen from our kitchen. I didn’t need to steal any matches; I always had a book of them in my pocket. I sat down in the driver’s seat and touched the underside of the roof with my finger, feeling the hole I’d put there with a single shot from Max’s father’s silenced gun.
I drove toward the lake, stopped halfway, and poured two cans of gas on the magazines and backseat. The smell was terrible, but I ignored it.
I continued down the road looking for Nobody and found her almost at the farthest end, waving from a dirt turnoff. I slowed and pulled off, driving past her and parking behind a stand of trees. It was a good spot—the road kept going past the lake, but there was nothing out there for miles and no one was likely to drive past or see us. I stepped out, locking the driver’s door as I closed it. It would never open again. Nobody ran toward me, smiling with Brooke’s mouth.
“You made it!” she said, then she coughed and stepped back, waving her hand in front of her face. “Wow, gas for the snowblower, huh?”
“They’re pretty old cans; a lot of fumes get out.”
“At least it will have some time to air out while we fish,” she said. “I’ve got the stuff right over here.” She pointed into the trees, and I saw her bike leaning against a trunk, two poles and a backpack propped up beside it.
“Wow,” I said, trying to sound alive. “You carried those here on your bike?”
“I’m amazing,” she said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve biked out here to fish.” She drew closer. “First time I’ve been out this far, though, with such a handsome young man.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking around. This is it. Don’t think, don’t wait, just do it. “I was actually thinking of another spot. It’s a little further back, but we can get a lot farther off the road. It’s really nice.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really private.”
“Sounds great,” she said with a smile, “but I’m not taking the poles this time.” She walked toward her bike. “Race you there?”
“Why don’t you just come with me? I can stick your bike in the trunk.”
“And we won’t asphyxiate from the gas fumes first?”
“I made it here, didn’t I? We’ll roll down the windows; it’ll be fine.”
She grinned. “Let’s do it.” She walked toward the car, and I followed. Nobody talked and acted as if she was half Brooke—as if Brooke’s memories were somehow mingled with her own. If that was true, she’d wait for me to open her door; Brooke was very old-fashioned that way. She stopped at the door, waiting, and I forced myself to smile. Perfect. I opened the door, she coughed and laughed and climbed in, and I closed it firmly behind her.
Goodbye, Brooke. I’m sorry.
Her hand went to the window roller, and I turned to walk back to the trunk. I opened it, listening to the silence as Nobody tried and failed to roll down the window. I pulled out the gas can and the funnel.
“John, I think your window’s broken.” Its voice was muffled through the closed door. I heard a series of clicks as it tried the handle. “The door’s broken too. Wow, it smells awful in here.”
I closed the trunk and saw that Nobody had scooted across to the driver’s side and was trying the handle there. It saw me, looked at me, saw the can in my hand.
“What are you doing?”
I set the gas can on the trunk, climbed up after it, and reached across to the hole in the roof. The funnel just barely fit.
“John!” it shouted. “John, let me out! What are you doing up there?” The car shifted as she moved again, and when I reached back to lift the heavy gas can onto the roof I saw her scrambling over the seats to reach the back doors. She put a hand on the gas-soaked magazines and drew back in disgust. “Is this gas?” She smelled her hand and her eyes went wide with terror. She stepped over the seats, her feet splashing down in puddles of gas in the foot wells, and pounded on the rear window. “John! What are you doing? Let me out!”
I hefted the gas can up onto the roof, unscrewed the cap, and tipped it lightly into the funnel. Gas streamed down, sending up a new wave of fumes, and Nobody screamed again. There was already plenty of gas in the car, but the fumes were the important part—that’s what would ignite, mingling with the air to fill the entire car with flame. Nobody tried one door then the other, banging on the windows.
“John, let me out! You’re going to kill me! You’re insane!”
I kept pouring, trying to keep the stream steady as the car jostled beneath me.
“John, this was all a joke!” she cried. “I’m not a demon, I’m not Nobody, I’m just Brooke. It was a joke! You can’t kill me!”
I closed my eyes and tipped the can upside down, pouring out the last few drops. Nobody hit the funnel from underneath, knocking it up and over, and the last slosh of gas poured out onto the roof. She was plugging the hole with her finger.
“Please, John, don’t do this. Don’t do this.” She was sobbing. “You can’t kill me. I am Nobody, I admit it, I am, but this is Brooke’s body! She�
�s still in here! You’re killing her too! I know you want to kill demons—I want to kill them too, but you’re killing Brooke! You’re killing your friend! You love her! She loves you, dammit, let me out!”
I threw the can aside, stood up, and carefully wiped my hands as clean of gas as I could get them. I reached into my pocket for a book of matches, pulled it out, and tore the first match free.
Nobody was by the back window now, banging on the glass and snarling like an animal. Brooke’s features were twisted into a mask of fury: lips curled, teeth bared. Brooke’s hair and face were drenched in gasoline. “I will kill you, John, I will eat your heart you bastard!” She was screaming now, her voice an unrecognizable roar. “You think this car can hold me in? You think this fire can hurt me?” She slammed her fist into the window. “You can’t kill me!”
I folded the matchbook around the match, pressing it tightly against the striking surface, and ripped it free. The match flared to life, a tiny flame hungry for fuel. I leaned forward, keeping clear of the gas, and reached out to drop the match into the hole in the roof. Before I could let it go, the car shook violently as Nobody slammed against the side door, and the flame caught on the puddle of spilled gas. The roof burst into flame and I stumbled back, falling onto the trunk. The fall knocked the wind out of my lungs, and the matchbook flew out of my hand.
I struggled for air as the burning gas began to run down the back window toward me. Nobody slammed into the door again, and I heard the side window crack. I rolled off the car, kneeling by the back wheel, and finally managed to draw a breath. The car shook again, the window shattered loudly, and a shower of broken glass exploded out from the car. Brooke’s body crawled out through the window, soaked with sweat and gas; the broken window scraped her, leaving long bloody gashes in her arms and legs. The body fell out in a heap, gasping for air and moaning with pain, and I backed away. She’s covered in gas. If I can find the matches, I can still kill her.
“You,” she croaked, “bastard.”
I turned wildly, looking for the matchbook; it was behind me, about ten feet away, and I lunged for it. Something caught my leg and I fell, landing on my wrist and bending it backward. I screamed in pain.
“John Cleaver,” the demon hissed, Brooke’s hand tight on my ankle. I rolled to the side and saw her crawling toward me, reaching out with her other hand and grasping my leg. Her eyes glared hellishly from behind long tangles of wet, bloody hair. “I should have known you’d try to kill me. You never loved Brooke; she’s weak, and stupid. You could never love a stupid blond nothing like her.” Her fingers—Brooke’s fingers—dug into my leg like claws, and she pulled herself closer, letting go of my ankle and grabbing my chest. I tried to kick her off but she sat on my legs and slammed her fist into my gut, nearly doubling me over in pain. “I should have known I could never be happy as Brooke, but you—you’re something different altogether. Something powerful and driven. You’re passionate.” She smiled wolfishly, baring her teeth. “I love you.”
A drop of burning gas from the roof of the car finally dripped down through the hole, and the interior of the car roared into blazing life. Nobody sat firmly on my hips, pinning me to the ground, and picked up a fragment of glass. It was a small cube of safety glass, but it had a sharp edge.
“No,” I said, struggling to push her off. She brought up the glass, gripping it so tightly that her fingers ran red with smears of blood, and pressed it against her forearm. “You’ll kill her,” I croaked, but she smiled.
“I’m only finishing what you started. Soon we’ll be together, more closely and more perfectly than you could ever be with Brooke. We’ll be one. We’ll be perfect.”
I grabbed her arms, trying to force them apart, but she brought them together with a terrifying, inhuman strength and plunged the glass shard into her arm. She dug it deep into the skin, raking it through muscle and artery and spraying hot, red blood across my face. Blood pumped out in great spurts, covering me, and Brooke’s body shook with pain. As the blood poured out she grew weaker, and I knocked the shard out of her hand. I gripped her ragged forearm with both fists, pressing it tightly, trying to stop the hot, sticky flow of blood—
—and then something moved, thick and wet, against the palm of my hand.
I jerked back, an involuntarily spasm of revulsion. A dark black tendril reached out from inside Brooke’s arm. It was tentative, like a snake’s tongue tasting the air. It grew longer, reaching toward me, and suddenly there were two, then three, then a vast web of dark black tentacles springing out of Brooke’s body in a viscous deluge. I covered my face with one arm and flailed against them with my other, trying madly to knock them aside, gritting my teeth against the pain in my damaged wrist. I felt a wave of nausea as the wet tendrils touched my skin, and then they were everywhere—grasping, reaching, sticking. I tried to push them back, tried to free myself and run away, but Brooke’s legs kept me pinned to the dirt while a sea of black tendrils grabbed my arms and forced them aside. Nobody loomed over me, a hideous mix of pain and triumph on Brooke’s half-dead face.
“I love you, John. I’ve loved you since the day you called me, swearing to destroy us. It’s what I always wanted but never dared to do—but not you. You can actually do it. You have the strength I never did. Sometimes I wish I could be … you.”
Black slime oozed out of Brooke’s jagged wound in great waves, undulating with some kind of hideous life. It seemed to hang in the air, a noxious blob frozen in time, then leapt suddenly at my face like a bolt of black lightning.
25
I clamped my mouth shut, squeezed my eyes tightly closed, but it was everywhere—in my nose, in my ears, peeling back my lips and pressing in against my teeth. I flexed my arms and legs, grunting with the effort to free them, trying to push back against the sludge with nothing but my tongue. My mouth was filled with the taste of ash and blood, the feel of grit and slime. The slime moved repugnantly inside me, pushing past my tongue, crawling up my nose, forcing itself into every crack and crevice. My head throbbed for want of air, my lungs burned, my ears buzzed with the sound of my own wild heartbeat and the sticky creep of sludge. I was blind and deaf, drowning in viscous evil, lost and alone.
I will not be taken, I thought. I will not let this happen! But there was no way to stop it—its grip was too tight, its tendrils too many, its darkness my entire world. I felt my chest bursting and caving in at once, desperate for air—and then abruptly, the weight of Brooke’s body fell backward, its grip loosened, and I wrenched my hands free. My head was surrounded with black tar, warm and slimy, and I scrambled at it like an animal.
I pulled the thing away from my head and opened my eyes to blinding heat—the entire car was ablaze, the broken window spouting flame like a raging furnace. The sludge was on me, grasping at my hands, crawling back toward my head; Brooke lay on the ground in the spray of broken glass, bleeding and moving feebly. Her body was connected to mine by a black, pulsing web; we were snared together like flies. Hands were scraping at the sludge on my body, pulling and pushing it away. My hands and other hands, worn and familiar.
My mother loomed over me, teeth bared in a grimace of effort, real and alive, wrestling with the demon like it was charred, black taffy.
I tore at the sludge in my mouth, spitting it out, clawing it out of my nose and gums. “Mom,” I croaked. My voice was thin and distant; hers was inaudible. I pulled at the sludge in my ears, struggling to free them, and suddenly the world burst in with a rush of sound—the aural surface shock after a deep-water dive.
“Get off of him,” Mom snarled, but it was no use—the demon had recovered from whatever initial attack had knocked it away and it had adapted to face a new opponent. With a sweep of its tendrils it knocked Mom’s feet out from under her, thick whips of black pinning her arms so she couldn’t catch herself. She landed heavily, grunting with the impact, and the black sludge swarmed back to me like a mass of hungry worms.
“You can never stop us,” hissed Brooke’s voice,
weak and frail. Her eyes were closed, and she lay in a limp knot like a discarded puppet. The black sludge forced my arms to my sides and oozed slowly up my body to my head. Brooke’s mouth moved unnaturally, as if independent of her body. “John and I are one. I am John now, and we will never be apart.”
“Shut up,” I snarled, but it was a threatless cry; I was immobile and helpless.
“Get away from him, whatever you are.” The sludge was flowing away from Mom to focus on me, and she struggled free of its grip.
“I love him,” whispered Brooke’s voice, “and he loves me.” The sludge was up to my neck, hot and vile on my skin.
“Never,” said Mom, diving back toward the sludge. “Brooke maybe, but never you.”
“He does,” said the voice, and the ashy, black tendrils reached up to my face, prying at my lips. I pressed them tightly together, flexing every muscle in my face, but still it started to open them, to crawl back inside.
Mom looked at me helplessly, eyes wet with tears, hands clawing uselessly at the flowing black sludge. She screamed, closed her eyes, then opened them and staggered back.
“John hates himself,” she said loudly, looking back and forth between Brooke and I, as if unsure where to direct her voice. “Become a part of him and he’ll hate you too. He always will.”
The sludge slowed, tendrils pausing in midair. What are you doing? I thought.
Mom swallowed and went on. “He didn’t love Brooke either, or Marci, or anyone else, and they didn’t love him.” She looked at me, eyes pleading. She’s sorry, I thought. I know that face; I know her better than anyone in the world. Why is she saying these things if she’s sorry about them? There was another look there, too, hidden behind the other. What is she doing?
“There’s only one person he’s ever loved,” she said, “and only one person who’s ever loved him back.”
The look in her eyes became clear, and suddenly I knew she was saying good-bye. Don’t do it! I screamed, but my mouth was full of ash and I couldn’t make a sound.